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in front of Margarita. Woland waved his hand and Frieda vanished.
'Thank you. Goodbye,' said Margarita and rose to go. ' Now, Behemoth,'
said Woland, ' as tonight is a holiday we shan't take advantage of her for
being so impractical, shall we? ' He turned to Margarita. ' All right, that
didn't count, because I did nothing. What do you want for yourself? '
There was silence, broken by Koroviev whispering to Margarita:
'Madonna bellissima, this time I advise you to be more sensible. Or
your luck may run out.'
'I want you to give me back instantly, this minute, my lover --the
master,' said Margarita, her face contorted.
A gust of wind burst into the room, flattening the candle flames. The
heavy curtain billowed out, the window was flung open. and high above
appeared a full moon--not a setting moon, but the midnight moon. A dark
green cloth stretched from the wind-ow-sill to the floor and down it walked
Ivan's night visitor, the man who called himself the master. He was wearing
his hospital clothes--dressing-gown, slippers and the black cap from which
he was never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he squinted
with fear at the candle flames and a flood of moonlight boiled around him.
Margarita recognised him at once, groaned, clasped her hands and ran
towards him. She kissed him on the forehead, the lips, pressed her face to
his prickly cheek and her long-suppressed tears streamed down her face. She
could only say, repeating it like a senseless refrain :
'It's you . . . it's you . . . it's you . . .'
The master pushed her away and said huskily :
'Don't cry, Margot, don't torment me, I'm very ill,' and he
grasped the windowsill as though preparing to jump out and
run away again. Staring round at the figures seated in the room
he cried : ' I'm frightened, Margot! I'm getting hallucinations
again . . .'
Stifled with sobbing, Margarita whispered, stammering :
'No, no ... don't be afraid . . . I'm here . . . I'm here . . .'
Deftly and unobtrusively Koroviev slipped a chair behind the
master. He collapsed into it and Margarita fell on her knees at
his side, where she grew calmer. In her excitement she had not
noticed that she was no longer naked and that she was now
wearing a black silk gown. The master's head nodded forward
and he stared gloomily at the floor.
'Yes,' said Woland after a pause, ' they have almost broken
him.' He gave an order to Koroviev :
'Now, sir, give this man something to drink.'
In a trembling voice Margarita begged the master :
'Drink it, drink it! Are you afraid? No, no, believe me,
they want to help you! '
The sick man took the glass and drank it, but his hand trembled,
he dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.
'Ma^el tov!' Koroviev whispered to Margarita. ' Look, he's
coming to himself already.'
It was true. The patient's stare was less wild and distraught.
'Is it really you, Margot? asked the midnight visitor.
'Yes, it really is,' replied Margarita.
'More! ' ordered Woland.
When the master had drained the second glass his eyes were
fully alive and conscious. ' That's better,' said Woland with a slight
frown. ' Now we can talk. Who are you? '
'I am no one,' replied the master with a lopsided smile.
'Where have you just come from? '
'From the madhouse. I am a mental patient,' replied the visitor.
Margarita could not bear to hear this and burst into tears again. Then
she wiped her eyes and cried :
'It's terrible--terrible! He is a master, messire, I warn you! Cure
him--he's worth it! '
'You realise who I am, don't you? ' Woland asked. ' Do you know where
you are? '
'I know,' answered the master. 'My next-door neighbour in the madhouse
is that boy, Ivan Bezdomny. He told me about you.'
'Did he now! ' replied Woland. ' I had the pleasure of meeting that
young man at Patriarch's Ponds. He nearly drove me mad, trying to prove that
I didn't exist. But you believe in me, I hope? '
'I must,' said the visitor, ' although I would much prefer it if I
could regard you as a figment of my own hallucination. Forgive me,' added
the master, recollecting himself.
'By all means regard me as such if that makes you any happier,'
replied Woland politely.
'No, no! ' said Margarita with anxiety, shaking the master by the
shoulder. ' Think again! It really is him! '
'But I really am like a hallucination. Look at my profile in the
moonlight,' said Behemoth. The cat moved into a shaft of moonlight and was
going to say something else, but was told to shut up and only said :
'All right, all right, I'll be quiet. I'll be a silent hallucination.'
'Tell me, why does Margarita call you the master? ' enquired Woland.
The man laughed and said :
'An understandable weakness of hers. She has too high an opinion of a
novel that I've written.' Which novel? '
'A novel about Pontius Pilate.'
Again the candle flames flickered and jumped and the crockery rattled
on the table as Woland gave a laugh like a clap of thunder. Yet no one was
frightened or shocked by the laughter; Behemoth even applauded.
'About what? About whom?' said Woland, ceasing to laugh. ' But that's
extraordinary! In this day and age? Couldn't you have chosen another
subject? Let me have a look.' Woland stretched out his hand palm uppermost.
'Unfortunately I cannot show it to you,' replied the master, ' because
I burned it in my stove.'
'I'm sorry but I don't believe you,' said Woland. ' You can't have
done. Manuscripts don't burn.' He turned to Behemoth and said : ' Come on.
Behemoth, give me the novel.'
The cat jumped down from its chair and wh.ere he had been sitting was a
pile of manuscripts. With a bow the cat handed the top copy to Woland.
Margarita shuddered and cried out, moved to tears :
'There's the manuscript! There it is! '
She flung herself at Woland's feet and cried ecstatically:
'You are all-powerful! '
Woland took it, turned it over, put it aside and turned, unsmiling, to
stare at the master. Without apparent cause the master had suddenly relapsed
into uneasy gloom ; he got up from his chair, wrung his hands and turning
towards the distant moon he started to tremble, muttering :
'Even by moonlight there's no peace for me at night. . . Why do they
torment me? Oh, ye gods . . .'
Margarita clutched his hospital dressing-gown, embraced him and moaned
tearfully :
'Oh God, why didn't that medicine do you any good? '
'Don't be upset,' whispered Koroviev, edging up to the master, '
another little glassful and I'll have one myself to keep you company . . .'
A glass winked in the moonlight. It began to work. The master sat down
again and his expression grew calmer.
'Well, that makes everything quite clear,' said Woland, tapping the
manuscript with his long finger.
'Quite clear,' agreed the cat, forgetting its promise to be a silent
hallucination. ' I see the gist of this great opus quite plainly now. What
do you say, Azazello? '
'I say,' drawled Azazello, ' that you ought to be drowned.'
'Be merciful, Azazello', the cat replied, ' and don't put such
thoughts into my master's head. I'd come and haunt you every night and
beckon you to follow me. How would you like that, Azazello? '
'Now Margarita,' said Woland, ' say whatever you wish to say.'
Margarita's eyes shone and she said imploringly to Woland :
'May I whisper to him? '
Woland nodded and Margarita leaned over the master's ear and whispered
something into it. Aloud, he replied :
'No, it's too late. I want nothing more out of life except to see you.
But take my advice and leave me, otherwise you will be destroyed with me.'
'No, I won't leave you,' replied Margarita, and to Woland she said: '
Please send us back to his basement in that street near the Arbat, light the
lamp again and make everything as it was before.'
The master laughed, and clasping Margarita's dishevelled head he said:
'Don't listen to this poor woman, messire! Somebody else is living in
that basement now and no one can turn back the clock.' He laid his cheek on
his mistress's head, embraced Margarita and murmured:
'My poor darling . . .'
'No one can turn the clock back, did you say? ' said Woland ' That's
true. But we can always try. Azazello! '
Immediately a bewildered man in his underclothes crashed through the
ceiling to the floor, with a suitcase in his hand and wearing a cap. Shaking
with fear, the man bowed.
'Is your name Mogarych? ' Azazello asked him.
'Aloysius Mogarych,' said the new arrival, trembling.
'Are you the man who lodged a complaint against this man ' --pointing
to the master--' after you had read an article about him by Latunsky, and
denounced him for harbouring illegal literature? ' asked Azazello.
The man turned blue and burst into tears of penitence.
'You did it because you wanted to get his flat, didn't you? ' said
Azazello in a confiding, nasal whine.
The cat gave a hiss of fury and Margarita, with a howl of:
'I'll teach you to thwart a witch! ' dug her nails into Aloysius
Mogarych's face.
There was a brisk scuffle.
'Stop it! ' cried the master in an agonised voice. ' Shame on you,
Margot! '
'I protest! There's nothing shameful in it! ' squeaked the cat.
Koroviev pulled Margarita away.
'I put in a bathroom . . .' cried Mogarych, his face streaming blood.
His teeth were chattering and he was babbling with fright. ' I gave it a
coat of whitewash . . .'
'What a good thing that you put in a bathroom,' said Azazello
approvingly. ' He'll be able to have baths now.' And he shouted at Mogarych
: ' Get out! '
The man turned head over heels and sailed out of the open window of
Woland's bedroom.
His eyes starting from his head, the master whispered :
'This beats Ivan's story! ' He stared round in amazement then said to
the cat: ' Excuse me, but are you . . .' he hesitated, not sure how one
talked to a cat: ' Are you the same cat who boarded the tramcar? '
'I am,' said the cat, flattered, and added : ' It's nice to hear
someone speak so politely to a cat. People usually address cats as " pussy
", which I regard as an infernal liberty.'
'It seems to me that you're not entirely a cat . . .' replied the
master hesitantly. ' The hospital people are bound to catch me again, you
know,' he added to Woland resignedly.
'Why should they?' said Koroviev reassuringly. Some papers and books
appeared in his hand : ' Is this your case-history? '
'Yes.. .'
Koroviev threw the case-history into the fire. ' Remove the
document--and you remove the man,' said Koroviev with satisfaction.
'And is this your landlord's rent-book? '
'Yes...'
'What is the tenant's name? Aloysius Mogarych? ' Koroviev blew on the
page. ' Hey presto! He's gone and, please note, he was never there. If the
landlord is surprised, tell him he was dreaming about Aloysius. Mogarych?
What Mogarych? Never heard of him! ' At this the rent-book evaporated from
Koro-viev's hands. ' Now it's back on the landlord's desk.'
'You were right,' said the master, amazed at Koroviev's efficiency, '
when you said that once you remove the document, you remove the man as well.
I no longer exist now--I have no papers.'
'Oh no, I beg your pardon,' exclaimed Koroviev. ' That is just another
hallucination. Here are your papers! ' He handed the master some documents,
then said with a wink to Margarita:
'And here is your property, Margarita Nikolayevna.' Koroviev handed
Margarita a manuscript-book with burnt edges, a dried rose, a photograph
and, with special care, a savings-bank book :
'The ten thousand that you deposited, Margarita Nikolayevna. We have
no use for other people's money.'
'May my paws drop off before I touch other people's money,' exclaimed
the cat, bouncing up and down on a suitcase to flatten the copies of the
ill-fated novel that were inside it.
'And a little document of yours,' Koroviev went on, handing Margarita
a piece of paper. Then turning to Woland he announced respectfully : ' That
is everything, messire.'
'No, it's not everything,' answered Woland, turning away from the
globe. ' What would you like me to do with your retinue, Madonna? I have no
need of them myself.' Natasha, stark naked, flew in at the open window and
cried to
Margarita : ' I hope you'll be very happy, Margarita Nikolay-evna! '
She nodded towards the master and went on : ' You see, I knew about it all
the time.'
'Servants know everything,' remarked the cat, wagging its paw sagely.
' It's a mistake to think they're blind.'
'What do you want, Natasha? ' asked Margarita. ' Go back home.'
'Dear Margarita Nikolayevna,' said Natasha imploringly and fell on her
knees, ' ask him,' she nodded towards Woland, ' to let me stay a witch. I
don't want to go back to that house! Last night at the ball Monsieur Jacques
made me an offer.' Natasha unclenched her fist and showed some gold coins.
Margarita looked enquiringly at Woland, who nodded. Natasha embraced
Margarita, kissed her noisily and with a triumphant cry flew out of the
window.
Natasha was followed by Nikolai Ivanovich. He had regained human form,
but was extremely glum and rather cross.
'Now here's someone I shall be especially glad to release,' said
Woland, looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with repulsion. ' I shall be delighted
to see the last of him.'
'Whatever you do, please give me a certificate,' said Nikolai
Ivanovich, anxiously but with great insistence, ' to prove where I was last
night.'
'What for? ' asked the cat sternly.
'To show to my wife and to the police,' said Nikolai Ivanovich firmly.
'We don't usually give certificates,' replied the cat frowning, ' but
as it's for you we'll make an exception.'
Before Nikolai Ivanovich knew what was happening, the naked Hella was
sitting behind a typewriter and the cat dictating to her.
'This is to certify that the Bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the
night in question at Satan's Ball, having been enticed there in a vehicular
capacity . . . Hella, put in brackets after that " (pig) ".
Signed--Behemoth.'
'What about the date? ' squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.
'We don't mention the date, the document becomes invalid if it's
dated,' replied the cat, waving the piece of paper. Then the animal produced
a rubber stamp, breathed on it in the approved fashion, stamped ' Paid ' on
the paper and handed the document to Nikolai Ivanovich. He vanished without
trace, to be unexpectedly replaced by another man.
'Now who's this? ' asked Woland contemptuously, shielding his eyes
from the candlelight.
Varenukha hung his head, sighed and said in a low voice :
'Send me back, I'm no good as a vampire. Hella and I nearly frightened
Rimsky to death, but I'll never make a vampire--I'm just not bloodthirsty.
Please let me go.'
'What is he babbling about?' asked Woland, frowning. ' Who is this
Rimsky? What is all this nonsense? '
'Nothing to worry about, messire,' said Azazello and he turned to
Varenukha : ' Don't play the fool or tell lies on the telephone any more.
Understand? You're not going to, are you?.-
Overcome with relief, Varenukha beamed and stammered :
'Thank Go ... I mean . . . your may ... as soon as I've had my supper
. . .' He pressed his hand to his heart and gazed imploringly at Azazello.
'All right. Off you go home! ' said Azazello and Varenukha melted
away.
'Now all of you leave me alone with these two,' ordered Woland,
pointing to the master and Margarita.
Woland's command was obeyed instantly. After a silence he said to the
master :
'So you're going back to your basement near the Arbat. How will you be
able to write now? Where are your dreams, your inspiration? '
'I have no more dreams and my inspiration is dead,' replied the
master, ' nobody interests me any longer except her '--he laid his hand
again on Margarita's head--' I'm finished. My only wish is to return to that
basement.'
'And what about your novel? What about Pilate? '
'I hate that novel,' replied the master. ' I have been through too
much because of it.'
'Please,' begged Margarita piteously, ' don't talk like that. Whv are
you torturing me? You know I've put my whole life into your work,' and she
added, turning to Woland : ' Don't listen to him, messire, he has suffered
too much.'
'But won't you need to re-write some of it? ' asked Woland. ' Or if
you've exhausted your Procurator, why not write about somebody else--that
Aloysius, for instance . . .'
The master smiled.
'Lapshennikova would never print it and in any case that doesn't
interest me.'
'How will you earn your living, then? Won't you mind being poor? '
'Not a bit,' said the master, drawing Margarita to him. Embracing her
round the shoulders he added: ' She'll leave me when she comes to her
senses.'
'I doubt it,' said Woland, teeth clenched. He went on : 'So the
creator of Pontius Pilate proposes to go and starve in a basement? '
Margarita unlinked her arms from the master's and said passionately :
'I've done all I can. I whispered to him the most tempting thing of
all. And he refused.'
'I know what you whispered to him,' said Woland, ' but that is not
what tempts him most. Believe me,' he turned with a smile to the master, '
your novel has some more surprises in store for you.'
'What a grim prospect,' answered the master.
'No, it is not grim at all,' said Woland. ' Nothing terrible will come
of it, I assure you. Well now, Margarita Nikolayevna, everything is
arranged. Have you any further claims on me?'
'How can I, messire? '
'Then take this as a souvenir,' said Woland and took a small golden,
diamond-studded horseshoe from under a cushion.
'No--I couldn't take it. Haven't you done enough for me? ' ' Are you
arguing with me? ' asked Woland, smiling.
As Margarita had no pocket in her gown she wrapped the horseshoe in a
napkin and knotted it. Then something seemed to worry her. She looked out of
the window at the moon and said :
'One thing I don't understand--it still seems to be midnight.
Shouldn't it be morning? '
'It's pleasant to stop the clock on a festive night such as this,'
replied Woland. ' And now--good luck!'
Margarita stretched both hands to Woland in entreaty, but found she
could come no nearer to him.
'Goodbye! Goodbye!'
'Au revoir,' said Woland.
Margarita in her black cloak and the master in his hospital
dressing-gown walked out into the corridor of Berlioz's flat, where the
light was burning and Woland's retinue was waiting for them. As they passed
along the corridor Hella, helped by the cat, carried the suitcase with the
novel and Margarita Nikolayev-na's few belongings.
At the door of the flat Koroviev bowed and vanished, while the others
escorted them down the staircase. It was empty. As they passed the third
floor landing a faint bump was heard, but no one paid it any attention. At
the front door of staircase 6 Azazello blew into the air and as they entered
the dark courtyard they saw a man in boots and peaked cap sound asleep on
the doorstep and a large, black car standing by the entrance with dimmed
lights. Barely visible in the driver's seat was the outline of a crow.
Margarita was just about to sit down when she gave a stifled cry of
despair:
'Oh God, I've lost the horseshoe.'
'Get into the car,' said Azazello, ' and wait for me. I'll be back in
a moment as soon as I've looked into this.' He walked back through the
doorway.
What had happened was this: shortly before Margarita, the master and
their escort had left No. 50, a shrivelled woman carrying a bag and a tin
can had emerged from No. 48, the flat immediately below. It was Anna--the
same Anna who the previous Wednesday had spilt the sunflower-seed oil near
the turnstile with such disastrous consequences for Berlioz.
Nobody knew and no one probably ever will know what this woman was
doing in Moscow or what she lived on. She was to be seen every day either
with her tin can or her bag or both, sometimes at the oil-shop, sometimes at
the market, sometimes outside the block of flats or on the staircase, but
mostly in the kitchen of flat No. 48, where she lived. She was notorious for
being a harbinger of disaster wherever she went and she was nicknamed ' Anna
the Plague '.
Anna the Plague usually got up very early in the morning, but this
morning something roused her long before dawn, soon after midnight. Her key
turned in the door, her nose poked through and was followed by Anna herself,
who slammed the door behind her. She was just about to set off on some
errand when the door banged on the upstairs landing, a man came bounding
downstairs, crashed into Anna and knocked her sideways so hard that she hit
the back of her head against the wall.
'Where the hell do you think you're going like that--in your
underpants? ' whined Anna, rubbing the back of her head.
The man, who was wearing underclothes and a cap and carrying a
suitcase, answered in a sleepy voice with his eyes closed:
'Bath . . . whitewash . . . cost me a fortune . . .' and bursting into
tears he bellowed : ' I've been kicked out! '
Then he dashed off--not downstairs but upstairs again to where the
windowpane had been broken by Poplavsky's foot, and through it he glided
feet first out into the courtyard. Forgetting about her aching head, Anna
gasped and rushed up to the broken window. She lay flat on the landing floor
and stuck her head out in the courtyard, expecting to see the mortal remains
of the man with the suitcase lit up by the courtyard lamp. But there was
absolutely nothing to be seen on the courtyard pavement.
As far as Anna could tell, this weird sleepwalker had flown out of the
house like a bird, leaving not a trace. She crossed herself and thought: '
It's that No. 50! No wonder people say it's haunted . . .'
The thought had hardly crossed her mind before the door upstairs
slammed again and someone else came running down. Anna pressed herself to
the wall and saw a respectable looking gentleman with a little beard and, so
it seemed to her, a slightly piggish face, who slipped past her and like the
first man left the building through the window, also without hitting the
ground below. Anna had long since forgotten her original reason for coming
out, and stayed on the staircase, crossing herself, moaning and talking to
herself. After a short while a third man, with no beard but with a round
clean-shaven face and wearing a shirt, emerged and shot through the window
in turn.
To give Anna her due she was of an enquiring turn of mind and she
decided to wait and see if there were to be any further marvels. The
upstairs door opened again and a whole crowd started coming downstairs, this
time not running but walking like ordinary people. Anna ran down from the
window back to her own front door, quickly opened it, hid behind it and kept
her eye, wild with curiosity, fixed to the crack which she left open.
An odd sick-looking man, pale with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and
dressing-gown, was walking unsteadily downstairs, carefully helped by a lady
wearing what looked to Anna in the gloom like a black cassock. The lady was
wearing some transparent slippers, obviously foreign, but so torn and
shredded that she was almost barefoot. It was indecent--bedroom slippers and
quite obviously naked except for a black gown billowing out as she walked! '
That No. 50!' Anna's mind was already savouring the story she was going to
tell the neighbours tomorrow.
After this lady came a naked girl carrying a suitcase and helped by an
enormous black cat. Rubbing her eyes, Anna could barely help bursting into a
shriek of pure amazement. Last in the procession was a short, limping
foreigner with a wall eye, no jacket, a white evening-dress waistcoat and a
bow tie. Just as the whole party had filed downstairs past Anna's door,
something fell on to the landing with a gentle thump.
When the sound of footsteps had died away, Anna wriggled out of her
doorway like a snake, put down her tin can, dropped on to her stomach and
started groping about on the landing floor. Suddenly she found herself
holding something heavy wrapped in a table-napkin. Her eyes started from her
head as she untied the napkin and lifted the jewel close to eyes that burned
with a wolfish greed. A storm of thoughts whirled round her mind:
'See no sights and tell no tales! Shall I take it to my nephew? Or
split it up into pieces? I could ease the stones out and sell them off one
at a time. . . .'
Anna hid her find in the front of her blouse, picked up her tin can and
was just about to abandon her errand and slip back indoors when she was
suddenly confronted by the coatless man with the white shirtfront, who
whispered to her in a soft voice :
'Give me that horseshoe wrapped in a serviette! '
'What serviette? What horseshoe? ' said Anna, prevaricating with great
skill. ' Never seen a serviette. What's the matter with you--drunk? '
Without another word but with fingers as hard and as cold as the
handrail of a bus, the man in the white shirtfront gripped Anna's throat so
tightly that he prevented all air from entering her lungs. The tin can fell
from her hand. Having stopped Anna from breathing for a while, the
jacketless stranger removed his fingers from her neck. Gasping for breath,
Anna smiled.
'Oh, you mean the little horseshoe? ' she said. ' Of course! Is it
yours? I looked and there it was wrapped in a serviette, I picked it up on
purpose in case anybody else might find it and vanish with it! '
With the horseshoe in his possession again, the stranger began bowing
and scraping to Anna, shook her by the hand and thanked her warmly in a
thick foreign accent:
'I am most deeply grateful to you, madame. This horseshoe is dear to
me as a memory. Please allow me to give you two hundred roubles for saving
it.' At which he pulled the money from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to
Anna, who could only exclaim with a bewildered grin :
'Oh, thank you so much! Merci!'
In one leap the generous stranger had jumped down a whole flight of
stairs, but before vanishing altogether he shouted up at her, this time
without a trace of an accent:
'Next time you find someone else's things, you old witch, hand it in
to the police instead of stuffing it down your front! '
Utterly confused by events and by the singing in her ears, Anna could
do nothing for a long time but stand on the staircase and croak: ' Mem!
Merci! ' until long after the stranger had vanished.
Having returned Woland's present to Margarita, Azazello said goodbye to
her, enquiring if she was comfortably seated ; Hella gave her a smacking
kiss and the cat pressed itself affectionately to her hand. With a wave to
the master as he lowered himself awkwardly into his seat and a wave to the
crow, the party vanished into thin air, without bothering to return indoors
and walk up the staircase. The crow switched on the headlights and drove out
of the courtyard past the man asleep at the entrance. Finally the lights of
the big black car were lost as they merged into the rows of streetlamps on
silent, empty Sadovaya Street.
An hour later Margarita was sitting, softly weeping from shock and
happiness, in the basement of the little house in one of the sidestreets off
the Arbat. In the master's study all was as it had been before that terrible
autumn night of the year before. On the table, covered with a velvet cloth,
stood a vase of lily-of-the-valley and a shaded lamp. The charred
manuscript-book lay in front of her, beside it a pile of undamaged copies.
The house was silent. Next door on a divan, covered by his hospital
dressing-gown, the master lay in a deep sleep, his regular breathing
inaudible from the next room.
Drying her tears, Margarita picked up one of the unharmed folios and
found the place that she had been reading before she had met Azazello
beneath the Kremlin wall. She had no wish to sleep. She smoothed the
manuscript tenderly as one strokes a favourite cat and turning it over in
her hands she inspected it from every angle, stopping now on the title page,
now at the end. A fearful thought passed through her mind that it was
nothing more than a piece of wizardry, that the folio might vanish from
sight, that she would wake up and find that she was in her bedroom at home
and it was time to get up and stoke the boiler. But this was only a last
terrible fantasy, the echo of long-borne suffering. Nothing vanished, the
all-powerful Woland really was all-powerful and Margarita was able to leaf
through the manuscript to her heart's content, till dawn if she wanted to,
stare at it, kiss it and re-read the words :
'The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city
that Pilate so detested . . .'
The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city that
Pilate so detested. The suspension bridges connecting the temple with the
grim fortress of Antonia vanished, the murk descended from the sky and
drowned the winged gods above the hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean
palace, the bazaars, the caravanserai, the alleyways, the pools . . .
Jerusalem, the great city, vanished as though it had never been. The mist
devoured everything, frightening every living creature in Jerusalem and its
surroundings. The city was engulfed by a strange cloud which had crept over
it from the sea towards the end of that day, the fourteenth of the month of
Nisan.
It had emptied its belly over Mount Golgotha, where the executioners
had hurriedly despatched their victims, it had flowed over the temple of
Jerusalem, pouring down in smoky cascades from the mound of the temple and
invading the Lower City. It had rolled through open windows and driven
people indoors from the winding streets. At first it held back its rain and
only spat lightning, the flame cleaving through the smoking black vapour,
lighting up the great pile of the temple and its glittering, scaly roof. But
the flash passed in a moment and the temple was plunged again into an abyss
of darkness. Several times it loomed through the murk to vanish again and
each time its disappearance was accompanied by a noise like the crack of
doom.
Other shimmering flashes lit up the palace of Herod the Great facing
the temple on the western hill; as they did so the golden statues, eyeless
and fearful, seemed to leap up into the black sky and stretch their arms
towards it. Then the fire from heaven would be quenched again and a great
thunderclap would banish the gilded idols into the mist.
The rainstorm burst suddenly and the storm turned into a hurricane. On
the very spot near a marble bench in the garden, where that morning the
Procurator had spoken to the High Priest, a thunderbolt snapped the trunk of
a cypress as though it had been a twig. With the water vapour and the hail,
the balcony under the arcade was swept with torn rose-heads, magnolia
leaves, small branches and sand as the hurricane scourged the garden.
At the moment when the storm broke only the Procurator was left beneath
the arcade.
He was no longer sitting in a chair but lying on a couch beside a small
low table laid with food and jugs of wine. Another, empty, couch stood on
the far side of the table. An untidy, blood-red puddle lay spread out at the
Procurator's feet amid the sherds of a broken jug. The servant who had laid
the Procurator's table had been so terrified by his look and so nervous at
his apparent displeasure that the Procurator had lost his temper with him
and smashed the jug on the mosaic floor, saying:
'Why don't you look me in the eyes when you serve me? Have you stolen
something? '
The African's black face turned grey, mortal terror came into his eyes
and he trembled so much that he almost broke another jug, but the Procurator
waved him away and the slave ran off, leaving the pool of spilt wine.
As the hurricane struck, the African hid himself in a niche beside a
statue of a white, naked woman with bowed head, afraid to show himself too
soon yet frightened of missing the call should the Procurator summon him.
Lying on his couch in the half-darkness of the storm the Procurator
poured out his own wine, drank it in long gulps, stretching out his arm for
an occasional piece of bread which he crumbled and ate in little pieces. Now
and again he would swallow an oyster, chew a slice of lemon and drink again.
Without the roar of water, without the claps of thunder which seemed to be
about to smash the palace roof, without the crash of hail that hammered on
the steps leading up to the balcony, a listener might have heard the
Procurator muttering as he talked to himself. And if the momentary flashes
of lightning had shone with a steady light an observer might have noticed
that the Procurator's face, the eyes inflamed with insomnia and wine, showed
impatience ; that the Procurator's glance was not only taken up by the two
yellow roses drowning in the red puddle, but that he was constantly turning
his face towards the garden, towards the water-lashed sand and mud; that he
was expecting someone, waiting impatiently.
A little time passed and the veil of water in front of the Procurator
began to thin out. The storm, though still furious, was abating. No more
branches creaked and fell. The lightning and thunder grew more infrequent.
The cloud hovering over Jerusalem was no longer violet edged with white but
a normal grey, the rearguard of the storm that was now moving onwards
towards the Dead Sea.
Soon the sound of the rain could be distinguished from the noise of
water running down the gutters and on to the staircase down which the
Procurator had walked to the square to pronounce sentence. At last even the
tinkle of the fountain, drowned until now, could be heard. It grew lighter.
Windows of blue began to appear in the grey veil as it fled eastward.
Then from far away, above the weak patter of rain, the Procurator heard
faint trumpet-calls and the tattoo of several score of horses' hooves. The
sound caused the Procurator to stir and his expression to liven. The ala was
returning from Mount Golgotha. To judge from the sound, they were just
crossing the hippodrome square.
At last the Procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps and the slap of
shoe-leather on the staircase leading to the upper terrace of the garden in
front of the balcony. The Procurator craned his neck and his eyes shone
expectantly.
Between the two marble lions there appeared first the cowled
head, then the figure of a man closely wrapped in his soaking wet
cloak. It was the same man with whom the Procurator, before pronouncing
sentence, had held a whispered conference in a darkened room of the palace,
and who had watched the execution as he played with a stick seated on a
three-legged stool.
Walking straight through the puddles, the cowled man crossed the
terrace, crossed the mosaic floor of the balcony, and raising his hand said
in a pleasant, high-pitched voice :
'Hail, Procurator! ' The visitor spoke in Latin.
'Gods! ' exclaimed Pilate. ' There's not a dry stitch on you!' What a
storm! Please go to my room at once and change.'
The man pushed back his cowl, revealing a completely wet head with the
hair plastered down over his forehead. With a polite smile on his
clean-shaven face he declined the offer of a change of clothing, assuring
the Procurator that a little rain would do him no harm.
'I won't hear of it,' replied Pilate. He clapped his hands, summoning
his cowering servant, and ordered him to help the visitor to change and then
to bring him some hot food.
The Procurator's visitor needed only a short while to dry his hair,
change his clothes, his footgear, and tidy himself up, and he soon
reappeared on the balcony in dry sandals, in a purple army cloak and with
his hair combed.
At that moment the sun returned to Jerusalem and before setting in the
Mediterranean it sent its parting rays over the Procurator's hated city and
gilded the balcony steps. The fountain was now playing again at full
strength, pigeons had landed on the terrace, cooing and hopping between the
broken twigs and pecking at the sand. The red puddle was mopped up, the
fragments removed, a steaming plateful of meat was set on the table.
'I await the Procurator's orders,' said the visitor as he approached
the table.
'Forget about my orders until you have sat down and drunk your wine,'
answered Pilate kindly, pointing to the other couch.
The man reclined, the servant poured some thick red wine into his cup.
Another servant, bending cautiously over Pilate's shoulder, filled the
Procurator's cup, after which he dismissed them both with a gesture.
While the visitor ate and drank Pilate sipped his wine and watched his
guest through narrowed eyes. The man was middle-aged with very pleasant,
neat, round features and a fleshy nose. The colour of his hair was vague,
though its colour lightened as it dried out. His nationality was hard to
guess. His main feature was a look of good nature, which was belied by his
eyes --or rather not so much by his eyes as by a peculiar way of looking at
the person facing him. Usually the man kept his small eyes shielded under
eyelids that were curiously enlarged, even swollen. At these moments the
chinks in his eyelids showed nothing but mild cunning, the look of a man
with a sense of humour. But there were times when the man who was now the
Procurator's guest opened his eyelids wide and gave a person a sudden,
unwavering stare as though to search out an inconspicuous spot on his nose.
It only lasted a moment, after which the lids dropped, the eyes narrowed
again and they shone with goodwill and sly intelligence.
The visitor accepted a second cup of wine, swallowed a few oysters with
obvious relish, tasted the boiled vegetables and ate a piece of meat. When
he had eaten his fill he praised the wine :
'An excellent vintage. Procurator--is it Falernian? '
'Cecuba--thirty years old,' replied the Procurator amiably.
The visitor placed his hand on his heart and declined the offer of more
to eat, saying that he had had enough. Pilate refilled his own cup and his
guest did the same. The two men each poured a libation into the dish of meat
and the Procurator, raising his cup, said in a loud voice :
'To thee, 0 Caesar, father of thy people, best and most beloved of
men.'
Both drank their wine to its dregs and the Africans cleared the dishes
from the table, leaving fruit and jugs of wine. The Procurator dismissed the
servants, and was left alone with his visitor under the arcade.
'So,' began Pilate quietly, ' what have you to tell me of the mood of
the city? ' Involuntarily he turned his glance downwards to where, past the
terraces of the garden, the colonnades and flat roofs glowed in the golden
rays of the setting sun.
'I believe, Procurator,' said his visitor, ' that the mood of
Jerusalem can now be regarded as satisfactory.'
'So I can rely on there being no further disorders? '
'One can only rely,' Arthanius replied with a reassuring glance at the
Procurator, ' on one thing in this world--on the power of great Caesar.'
'May the gods send him long life! ' Pilate said fervently, ' And
universal peace! ' He was silent for a moment then went on : ' What do you
think--can we withdraw the troops now? '
'I think the cohort from the Lightning can be sent away,' replied the
visitor, and added : ' It would be a good idea if it were to parade through
the city before leaving.'
'A very good idea,' said the Procurator approvingly. ' I shall order
it away the day after tomorrow. I shall also go myself and--I swear to you
by the feast of the twelve gods, I swear by the Lares--I would have given a
lot to have been able to do so today!'
'Does the Procurator not like Jerusalem?' enquired the visitor
amicably.
'Merciful heavens! ' exclaimed the Procurator, smiling. ' It's the
most unsettling place on earth. It isn't only the climate-- I'm ill every
time I have to come here--that's only half the trouble. But these festivals!
Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, the hordes of pilgrims. Fanatics--all of
them. And what price this messiah of theirs, which they're expecting this
year? Every moment there's likely to be some act of gratuitous bloodshed. I
spend all my time shuffling the troops about or reading denunciations and
complaints, half of which are directed at you. You must admit it's boring.
Oh, if only I weren't in the imperial service! '
'Yes, the festivals here are trying times,' agreed the visitor.
'I wish with all my heart that this one was over,' said Pilate
forcibly. ' Then I can go back to Caesarea. Do you know, this lunatic
building of Herod's'--the Procurator waved at the arcade, embracing the
whole palace in a gesture--' is positively driving me out of my mind. I
can't bear sleeping in it. It is the most extraordinary piece of
architecture in the world . . . However, to business. First of all--is that
cursed Bar-Abba giving you any trouble? '
At this the visitor directed his peculiar stare at the Procurator, but
Pilate was gazing wearily into the distance, frowning with distaste and
contemplating the quarter of the city which lay at his feet, fading into the
dusk. The visitor's glance also faded and his eyelids lowered again.
'I think that Bar is now as harmless as a lamb,' said the visitor, his
round face wrinkling. ' He is hardly in a position to make trouble now.'
'Too busy? ' asked Pilate, smiling.
'The Procurator, as usual, has put the point with great finesse.'
'But at all events,' remarked the Procurator anxiously and raised a
long, thin finger adorned with a black stone,' we must...'
'The Procurator may rest assured that as long as I am in Judaea Bar
will not move a step without my being on his heels.'
'That is comforting. I am always comforted when you are here.'
'The Procurator is too kind.'
'Now tell me about the execution,' said Pilate.
'What interests the Procurator in particular? '
'Chiefly, whether there were any attempts at insurrection from the
mob?'
'None,' answered the visitor.
'Good. Did you personally confirm that they were dead? '
'Of that the Procurator may be sure.'
'And tell me ... were they given a drink before being gibbeted?'
'Yes. But he '--the visitor closed his eyes--' refused to drink.' '
Who did? ' asked Pilate.
'I beg your pardon, hegemon! ' exclaimed the visitor. ' Didn't I say?
Ha-Notsri! '
'Madman! ' said Pilate, grimacing. A vein twitched under his left eye.
' To die of sunstroke! Why refuse what the law provides for? How did he
refuse? '
'He said,' replied the guest, shutting his eyes again, ' that he was
grateful and blamed no one for taking his life.'
'Whom did he thank? ' asked Pilate in a low voice.
'He did not say, hegemon . . .'
'He didn't try to preach to the soldiers, did he? '
'No, hegemon, he was not very loquacious on this occasion. His only
words were that he regarded cowardice as one of the worst human sins.'
'What made him say that? ' The Procurator's voice suddenly trembled.
'I have no idea. His behaviour was in any case strange, as it always
has been.'
'In what way strange? '
'He kept staring at individuals among the people standing around him,
and always with that curiously vague smile on his face.'
'Nothing more? ' asked the husky voice.
'Nothing more.'
The jug clattered against his cup as the Procurator poured himself some
more wine. Having drained it he said :
'My conclusion is as follows : although we have not been able--at
least not at present--to find any followers or disciples of his, we
nevertheless cannot be certain that he had none,'
The visitor nodded, listening intently.
'Therefore to avoid any untoward consequences,' the Procurator went
on, ' please remove the three victims' bodies from the face of the earth,
rapidly and without attracting attention. Bury them secretly and silently so
that nothing more is heard of them.'
'Very good, hegemon,' said the visitor. He stood up and said: ' As
'Thank you. Goodbye,' said Margarita and rose to go. ' Now, Behemoth,'
said Woland, ' as tonight is a holiday we shan't take advantage of her for
being so impractical, shall we? ' He turned to Margarita. ' All right, that
didn't count, because I did nothing. What do you want for yourself? '
There was silence, broken by Koroviev whispering to Margarita:
'Madonna bellissima, this time I advise you to be more sensible. Or
your luck may run out.'
'I want you to give me back instantly, this minute, my lover --the
master,' said Margarita, her face contorted.
A gust of wind burst into the room, flattening the candle flames. The
heavy curtain billowed out, the window was flung open. and high above
appeared a full moon--not a setting moon, but the midnight moon. A dark
green cloth stretched from the wind-ow-sill to the floor and down it walked
Ivan's night visitor, the man who called himself the master. He was wearing
his hospital clothes--dressing-gown, slippers and the black cap from which
he was never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he squinted
with fear at the candle flames and a flood of moonlight boiled around him.
Margarita recognised him at once, groaned, clasped her hands and ran
towards him. She kissed him on the forehead, the lips, pressed her face to
his prickly cheek and her long-suppressed tears streamed down her face. She
could only say, repeating it like a senseless refrain :
'It's you . . . it's you . . . it's you . . .'
The master pushed her away and said huskily :
'Don't cry, Margot, don't torment me, I'm very ill,' and he
grasped the windowsill as though preparing to jump out and
run away again. Staring round at the figures seated in the room
he cried : ' I'm frightened, Margot! I'm getting hallucinations
again . . .'
Stifled with sobbing, Margarita whispered, stammering :
'No, no ... don't be afraid . . . I'm here . . . I'm here . . .'
Deftly and unobtrusively Koroviev slipped a chair behind the
master. He collapsed into it and Margarita fell on her knees at
his side, where she grew calmer. In her excitement she had not
noticed that she was no longer naked and that she was now
wearing a black silk gown. The master's head nodded forward
and he stared gloomily at the floor.
'Yes,' said Woland after a pause, ' they have almost broken
him.' He gave an order to Koroviev :
'Now, sir, give this man something to drink.'
In a trembling voice Margarita begged the master :
'Drink it, drink it! Are you afraid? No, no, believe me,
they want to help you! '
The sick man took the glass and drank it, but his hand trembled,
he dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.
'Ma^el tov!' Koroviev whispered to Margarita. ' Look, he's
coming to himself already.'
It was true. The patient's stare was less wild and distraught.
'Is it really you, Margot? asked the midnight visitor.
'Yes, it really is,' replied Margarita.
'More! ' ordered Woland.
When the master had drained the second glass his eyes were
fully alive and conscious. ' That's better,' said Woland with a slight
frown. ' Now we can talk. Who are you? '
'I am no one,' replied the master with a lopsided smile.
'Where have you just come from? '
'From the madhouse. I am a mental patient,' replied the visitor.
Margarita could not bear to hear this and burst into tears again. Then
she wiped her eyes and cried :
'It's terrible--terrible! He is a master, messire, I warn you! Cure
him--he's worth it! '
'You realise who I am, don't you? ' Woland asked. ' Do you know where
you are? '
'I know,' answered the master. 'My next-door neighbour in the madhouse
is that boy, Ivan Bezdomny. He told me about you.'
'Did he now! ' replied Woland. ' I had the pleasure of meeting that
young man at Patriarch's Ponds. He nearly drove me mad, trying to prove that
I didn't exist. But you believe in me, I hope? '
'I must,' said the visitor, ' although I would much prefer it if I
could regard you as a figment of my own hallucination. Forgive me,' added
the master, recollecting himself.
'By all means regard me as such if that makes you any happier,'
replied Woland politely.
'No, no! ' said Margarita with anxiety, shaking the master by the
shoulder. ' Think again! It really is him! '
'But I really am like a hallucination. Look at my profile in the
moonlight,' said Behemoth. The cat moved into a shaft of moonlight and was
going to say something else, but was told to shut up and only said :
'All right, all right, I'll be quiet. I'll be a silent hallucination.'
'Tell me, why does Margarita call you the master? ' enquired Woland.
The man laughed and said :
'An understandable weakness of hers. She has too high an opinion of a
novel that I've written.' Which novel? '
'A novel about Pontius Pilate.'
Again the candle flames flickered and jumped and the crockery rattled
on the table as Woland gave a laugh like a clap of thunder. Yet no one was
frightened or shocked by the laughter; Behemoth even applauded.
'About what? About whom?' said Woland, ceasing to laugh. ' But that's
extraordinary! In this day and age? Couldn't you have chosen another
subject? Let me have a look.' Woland stretched out his hand palm uppermost.
'Unfortunately I cannot show it to you,' replied the master, ' because
I burned it in my stove.'
'I'm sorry but I don't believe you,' said Woland. ' You can't have
done. Manuscripts don't burn.' He turned to Behemoth and said : ' Come on.
Behemoth, give me the novel.'
The cat jumped down from its chair and wh.ere he had been sitting was a
pile of manuscripts. With a bow the cat handed the top copy to Woland.
Margarita shuddered and cried out, moved to tears :
'There's the manuscript! There it is! '
She flung herself at Woland's feet and cried ecstatically:
'You are all-powerful! '
Woland took it, turned it over, put it aside and turned, unsmiling, to
stare at the master. Without apparent cause the master had suddenly relapsed
into uneasy gloom ; he got up from his chair, wrung his hands and turning
towards the distant moon he started to tremble, muttering :
'Even by moonlight there's no peace for me at night. . . Why do they
torment me? Oh, ye gods . . .'
Margarita clutched his hospital dressing-gown, embraced him and moaned
tearfully :
'Oh God, why didn't that medicine do you any good? '
'Don't be upset,' whispered Koroviev, edging up to the master, '
another little glassful and I'll have one myself to keep you company . . .'
A glass winked in the moonlight. It began to work. The master sat down
again and his expression grew calmer.
'Well, that makes everything quite clear,' said Woland, tapping the
manuscript with his long finger.
'Quite clear,' agreed the cat, forgetting its promise to be a silent
hallucination. ' I see the gist of this great opus quite plainly now. What
do you say, Azazello? '
'I say,' drawled Azazello, ' that you ought to be drowned.'
'Be merciful, Azazello', the cat replied, ' and don't put such
thoughts into my master's head. I'd come and haunt you every night and
beckon you to follow me. How would you like that, Azazello? '
'Now Margarita,' said Woland, ' say whatever you wish to say.'
Margarita's eyes shone and she said imploringly to Woland :
'May I whisper to him? '
Woland nodded and Margarita leaned over the master's ear and whispered
something into it. Aloud, he replied :
'No, it's too late. I want nothing more out of life except to see you.
But take my advice and leave me, otherwise you will be destroyed with me.'
'No, I won't leave you,' replied Margarita, and to Woland she said: '
Please send us back to his basement in that street near the Arbat, light the
lamp again and make everything as it was before.'
The master laughed, and clasping Margarita's dishevelled head he said:
'Don't listen to this poor woman, messire! Somebody else is living in
that basement now and no one can turn back the clock.' He laid his cheek on
his mistress's head, embraced Margarita and murmured:
'My poor darling . . .'
'No one can turn the clock back, did you say? ' said Woland ' That's
true. But we can always try. Azazello! '
Immediately a bewildered man in his underclothes crashed through the
ceiling to the floor, with a suitcase in his hand and wearing a cap. Shaking
with fear, the man bowed.
'Is your name Mogarych? ' Azazello asked him.
'Aloysius Mogarych,' said the new arrival, trembling.
'Are you the man who lodged a complaint against this man ' --pointing
to the master--' after you had read an article about him by Latunsky, and
denounced him for harbouring illegal literature? ' asked Azazello.
The man turned blue and burst into tears of penitence.
'You did it because you wanted to get his flat, didn't you? ' said
Azazello in a confiding, nasal whine.
The cat gave a hiss of fury and Margarita, with a howl of:
'I'll teach you to thwart a witch! ' dug her nails into Aloysius
Mogarych's face.
There was a brisk scuffle.
'Stop it! ' cried the master in an agonised voice. ' Shame on you,
Margot! '
'I protest! There's nothing shameful in it! ' squeaked the cat.
Koroviev pulled Margarita away.
'I put in a bathroom . . .' cried Mogarych, his face streaming blood.
His teeth were chattering and he was babbling with fright. ' I gave it a
coat of whitewash . . .'
'What a good thing that you put in a bathroom,' said Azazello
approvingly. ' He'll be able to have baths now.' And he shouted at Mogarych
: ' Get out! '
The man turned head over heels and sailed out of the open window of
Woland's bedroom.
His eyes starting from his head, the master whispered :
'This beats Ivan's story! ' He stared round in amazement then said to
the cat: ' Excuse me, but are you . . .' he hesitated, not sure how one
talked to a cat: ' Are you the same cat who boarded the tramcar? '
'I am,' said the cat, flattered, and added : ' It's nice to hear
someone speak so politely to a cat. People usually address cats as " pussy
", which I regard as an infernal liberty.'
'It seems to me that you're not entirely a cat . . .' replied the
master hesitantly. ' The hospital people are bound to catch me again, you
know,' he added to Woland resignedly.
'Why should they?' said Koroviev reassuringly. Some papers and books
appeared in his hand : ' Is this your case-history? '
'Yes.. .'
Koroviev threw the case-history into the fire. ' Remove the
document--and you remove the man,' said Koroviev with satisfaction.
'And is this your landlord's rent-book? '
'Yes...'
'What is the tenant's name? Aloysius Mogarych? ' Koroviev blew on the
page. ' Hey presto! He's gone and, please note, he was never there. If the
landlord is surprised, tell him he was dreaming about Aloysius. Mogarych?
What Mogarych? Never heard of him! ' At this the rent-book evaporated from
Koro-viev's hands. ' Now it's back on the landlord's desk.'
'You were right,' said the master, amazed at Koroviev's efficiency, '
when you said that once you remove the document, you remove the man as well.
I no longer exist now--I have no papers.'
'Oh no, I beg your pardon,' exclaimed Koroviev. ' That is just another
hallucination. Here are your papers! ' He handed the master some documents,
then said with a wink to Margarita:
'And here is your property, Margarita Nikolayevna.' Koroviev handed
Margarita a manuscript-book with burnt edges, a dried rose, a photograph
and, with special care, a savings-bank book :
'The ten thousand that you deposited, Margarita Nikolayevna. We have
no use for other people's money.'
'May my paws drop off before I touch other people's money,' exclaimed
the cat, bouncing up and down on a suitcase to flatten the copies of the
ill-fated novel that were inside it.
'And a little document of yours,' Koroviev went on, handing Margarita
a piece of paper. Then turning to Woland he announced respectfully : ' That
is everything, messire.'
'No, it's not everything,' answered Woland, turning away from the
globe. ' What would you like me to do with your retinue, Madonna? I have no
need of them myself.' Natasha, stark naked, flew in at the open window and
cried to
Margarita : ' I hope you'll be very happy, Margarita Nikolay-evna! '
She nodded towards the master and went on : ' You see, I knew about it all
the time.'
'Servants know everything,' remarked the cat, wagging its paw sagely.
' It's a mistake to think they're blind.'
'What do you want, Natasha? ' asked Margarita. ' Go back home.'
'Dear Margarita Nikolayevna,' said Natasha imploringly and fell on her
knees, ' ask him,' she nodded towards Woland, ' to let me stay a witch. I
don't want to go back to that house! Last night at the ball Monsieur Jacques
made me an offer.' Natasha unclenched her fist and showed some gold coins.
Margarita looked enquiringly at Woland, who nodded. Natasha embraced
Margarita, kissed her noisily and with a triumphant cry flew out of the
window.
Natasha was followed by Nikolai Ivanovich. He had regained human form,
but was extremely glum and rather cross.
'Now here's someone I shall be especially glad to release,' said
Woland, looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with repulsion. ' I shall be delighted
to see the last of him.'
'Whatever you do, please give me a certificate,' said Nikolai
Ivanovich, anxiously but with great insistence, ' to prove where I was last
night.'
'What for? ' asked the cat sternly.
'To show to my wife and to the police,' said Nikolai Ivanovich firmly.
'We don't usually give certificates,' replied the cat frowning, ' but
as it's for you we'll make an exception.'
Before Nikolai Ivanovich knew what was happening, the naked Hella was
sitting behind a typewriter and the cat dictating to her.
'This is to certify that the Bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the
night in question at Satan's Ball, having been enticed there in a vehicular
capacity . . . Hella, put in brackets after that " (pig) ".
Signed--Behemoth.'
'What about the date? ' squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.
'We don't mention the date, the document becomes invalid if it's
dated,' replied the cat, waving the piece of paper. Then the animal produced
a rubber stamp, breathed on it in the approved fashion, stamped ' Paid ' on
the paper and handed the document to Nikolai Ivanovich. He vanished without
trace, to be unexpectedly replaced by another man.
'Now who's this? ' asked Woland contemptuously, shielding his eyes
from the candlelight.
Varenukha hung his head, sighed and said in a low voice :
'Send me back, I'm no good as a vampire. Hella and I nearly frightened
Rimsky to death, but I'll never make a vampire--I'm just not bloodthirsty.
Please let me go.'
'What is he babbling about?' asked Woland, frowning. ' Who is this
Rimsky? What is all this nonsense? '
'Nothing to worry about, messire,' said Azazello and he turned to
Varenukha : ' Don't play the fool or tell lies on the telephone any more.
Understand? You're not going to, are you?.-
Overcome with relief, Varenukha beamed and stammered :
'Thank Go ... I mean . . . your may ... as soon as I've had my supper
. . .' He pressed his hand to his heart and gazed imploringly at Azazello.
'All right. Off you go home! ' said Azazello and Varenukha melted
away.
'Now all of you leave me alone with these two,' ordered Woland,
pointing to the master and Margarita.
Woland's command was obeyed instantly. After a silence he said to the
master :
'So you're going back to your basement near the Arbat. How will you be
able to write now? Where are your dreams, your inspiration? '
'I have no more dreams and my inspiration is dead,' replied the
master, ' nobody interests me any longer except her '--he laid his hand
again on Margarita's head--' I'm finished. My only wish is to return to that
basement.'
'And what about your novel? What about Pilate? '
'I hate that novel,' replied the master. ' I have been through too
much because of it.'
'Please,' begged Margarita piteously, ' don't talk like that. Whv are
you torturing me? You know I've put my whole life into your work,' and she
added, turning to Woland : ' Don't listen to him, messire, he has suffered
too much.'
'But won't you need to re-write some of it? ' asked Woland. ' Or if
you've exhausted your Procurator, why not write about somebody else--that
Aloysius, for instance . . .'
The master smiled.
'Lapshennikova would never print it and in any case that doesn't
interest me.'
'How will you earn your living, then? Won't you mind being poor? '
'Not a bit,' said the master, drawing Margarita to him. Embracing her
round the shoulders he added: ' She'll leave me when she comes to her
senses.'
'I doubt it,' said Woland, teeth clenched. He went on : 'So the
creator of Pontius Pilate proposes to go and starve in a basement? '
Margarita unlinked her arms from the master's and said passionately :
'I've done all I can. I whispered to him the most tempting thing of
all. And he refused.'
'I know what you whispered to him,' said Woland, ' but that is not
what tempts him most. Believe me,' he turned with a smile to the master, '
your novel has some more surprises in store for you.'
'What a grim prospect,' answered the master.
'No, it is not grim at all,' said Woland. ' Nothing terrible will come
of it, I assure you. Well now, Margarita Nikolayevna, everything is
arranged. Have you any further claims on me?'
'How can I, messire? '
'Then take this as a souvenir,' said Woland and took a small golden,
diamond-studded horseshoe from under a cushion.
'No--I couldn't take it. Haven't you done enough for me? ' ' Are you
arguing with me? ' asked Woland, smiling.
As Margarita had no pocket in her gown she wrapped the horseshoe in a
napkin and knotted it. Then something seemed to worry her. She looked out of
the window at the moon and said :
'One thing I don't understand--it still seems to be midnight.
Shouldn't it be morning? '
'It's pleasant to stop the clock on a festive night such as this,'
replied Woland. ' And now--good luck!'
Margarita stretched both hands to Woland in entreaty, but found she
could come no nearer to him.
'Goodbye! Goodbye!'
'Au revoir,' said Woland.
Margarita in her black cloak and the master in his hospital
dressing-gown walked out into the corridor of Berlioz's flat, where the
light was burning and Woland's retinue was waiting for them. As they passed
along the corridor Hella, helped by the cat, carried the suitcase with the
novel and Margarita Nikolayev-na's few belongings.
At the door of the flat Koroviev bowed and vanished, while the others
escorted them down the staircase. It was empty. As they passed the third
floor landing a faint bump was heard, but no one paid it any attention. At
the front door of staircase 6 Azazello blew into the air and as they entered
the dark courtyard they saw a man in boots and peaked cap sound asleep on
the doorstep and a large, black car standing by the entrance with dimmed
lights. Barely visible in the driver's seat was the outline of a crow.
Margarita was just about to sit down when she gave a stifled cry of
despair:
'Oh God, I've lost the horseshoe.'
'Get into the car,' said Azazello, ' and wait for me. I'll be back in
a moment as soon as I've looked into this.' He walked back through the
doorway.
What had happened was this: shortly before Margarita, the master and
their escort had left No. 50, a shrivelled woman carrying a bag and a tin
can had emerged from No. 48, the flat immediately below. It was Anna--the
same Anna who the previous Wednesday had spilt the sunflower-seed oil near
the turnstile with such disastrous consequences for Berlioz.
Nobody knew and no one probably ever will know what this woman was
doing in Moscow or what she lived on. She was to be seen every day either
with her tin can or her bag or both, sometimes at the oil-shop, sometimes at
the market, sometimes outside the block of flats or on the staircase, but
mostly in the kitchen of flat No. 48, where she lived. She was notorious for
being a harbinger of disaster wherever she went and she was nicknamed ' Anna
the Plague '.
Anna the Plague usually got up very early in the morning, but this
morning something roused her long before dawn, soon after midnight. Her key
turned in the door, her nose poked through and was followed by Anna herself,
who slammed the door behind her. She was just about to set off on some
errand when the door banged on the upstairs landing, a man came bounding
downstairs, crashed into Anna and knocked her sideways so hard that she hit
the back of her head against the wall.
'Where the hell do you think you're going like that--in your
underpants? ' whined Anna, rubbing the back of her head.
The man, who was wearing underclothes and a cap and carrying a
suitcase, answered in a sleepy voice with his eyes closed:
'Bath . . . whitewash . . . cost me a fortune . . .' and bursting into
tears he bellowed : ' I've been kicked out! '
Then he dashed off--not downstairs but upstairs again to where the
windowpane had been broken by Poplavsky's foot, and through it he glided
feet first out into the courtyard. Forgetting about her aching head, Anna
gasped and rushed up to the broken window. She lay flat on the landing floor
and stuck her head out in the courtyard, expecting to see the mortal remains
of the man with the suitcase lit up by the courtyard lamp. But there was
absolutely nothing to be seen on the courtyard pavement.
As far as Anna could tell, this weird sleepwalker had flown out of the
house like a bird, leaving not a trace. She crossed herself and thought: '
It's that No. 50! No wonder people say it's haunted . . .'
The thought had hardly crossed her mind before the door upstairs
slammed again and someone else came running down. Anna pressed herself to
the wall and saw a respectable looking gentleman with a little beard and, so
it seemed to her, a slightly piggish face, who slipped past her and like the
first man left the building through the window, also without hitting the
ground below. Anna had long since forgotten her original reason for coming
out, and stayed on the staircase, crossing herself, moaning and talking to
herself. After a short while a third man, with no beard but with a round
clean-shaven face and wearing a shirt, emerged and shot through the window
in turn.
To give Anna her due she was of an enquiring turn of mind and she
decided to wait and see if there were to be any further marvels. The
upstairs door opened again and a whole crowd started coming downstairs, this
time not running but walking like ordinary people. Anna ran down from the
window back to her own front door, quickly opened it, hid behind it and kept
her eye, wild with curiosity, fixed to the crack which she left open.
An odd sick-looking man, pale with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and
dressing-gown, was walking unsteadily downstairs, carefully helped by a lady
wearing what looked to Anna in the gloom like a black cassock. The lady was
wearing some transparent slippers, obviously foreign, but so torn and
shredded that she was almost barefoot. It was indecent--bedroom slippers and
quite obviously naked except for a black gown billowing out as she walked! '
That No. 50!' Anna's mind was already savouring the story she was going to
tell the neighbours tomorrow.
After this lady came a naked girl carrying a suitcase and helped by an
enormous black cat. Rubbing her eyes, Anna could barely help bursting into a
shriek of pure amazement. Last in the procession was a short, limping
foreigner with a wall eye, no jacket, a white evening-dress waistcoat and a
bow tie. Just as the whole party had filed downstairs past Anna's door,
something fell on to the landing with a gentle thump.
When the sound of footsteps had died away, Anna wriggled out of her
doorway like a snake, put down her tin can, dropped on to her stomach and
started groping about on the landing floor. Suddenly she found herself
holding something heavy wrapped in a table-napkin. Her eyes started from her
head as she untied the napkin and lifted the jewel close to eyes that burned
with a wolfish greed. A storm of thoughts whirled round her mind:
'See no sights and tell no tales! Shall I take it to my nephew? Or
split it up into pieces? I could ease the stones out and sell them off one
at a time. . . .'
Anna hid her find in the front of her blouse, picked up her tin can and
was just about to abandon her errand and slip back indoors when she was
suddenly confronted by the coatless man with the white shirtfront, who
whispered to her in a soft voice :
'Give me that horseshoe wrapped in a serviette! '
'What serviette? What horseshoe? ' said Anna, prevaricating with great
skill. ' Never seen a serviette. What's the matter with you--drunk? '
Without another word but with fingers as hard and as cold as the
handrail of a bus, the man in the white shirtfront gripped Anna's throat so
tightly that he prevented all air from entering her lungs. The tin can fell
from her hand. Having stopped Anna from breathing for a while, the
jacketless stranger removed his fingers from her neck. Gasping for breath,
Anna smiled.
'Oh, you mean the little horseshoe? ' she said. ' Of course! Is it
yours? I looked and there it was wrapped in a serviette, I picked it up on
purpose in case anybody else might find it and vanish with it! '
With the horseshoe in his possession again, the stranger began bowing
and scraping to Anna, shook her by the hand and thanked her warmly in a
thick foreign accent:
'I am most deeply grateful to you, madame. This horseshoe is dear to
me as a memory. Please allow me to give you two hundred roubles for saving
it.' At which he pulled the money from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to
Anna, who could only exclaim with a bewildered grin :
'Oh, thank you so much! Merci!'
In one leap the generous stranger had jumped down a whole flight of
stairs, but before vanishing altogether he shouted up at her, this time
without a trace of an accent:
'Next time you find someone else's things, you old witch, hand it in
to the police instead of stuffing it down your front! '
Utterly confused by events and by the singing in her ears, Anna could
do nothing for a long time but stand on the staircase and croak: ' Mem!
Merci! ' until long after the stranger had vanished.
Having returned Woland's present to Margarita, Azazello said goodbye to
her, enquiring if she was comfortably seated ; Hella gave her a smacking
kiss and the cat pressed itself affectionately to her hand. With a wave to
the master as he lowered himself awkwardly into his seat and a wave to the
crow, the party vanished into thin air, without bothering to return indoors
and walk up the staircase. The crow switched on the headlights and drove out
of the courtyard past the man asleep at the entrance. Finally the lights of
the big black car were lost as they merged into the rows of streetlamps on
silent, empty Sadovaya Street.
An hour later Margarita was sitting, softly weeping from shock and
happiness, in the basement of the little house in one of the sidestreets off
the Arbat. In the master's study all was as it had been before that terrible
autumn night of the year before. On the table, covered with a velvet cloth,
stood a vase of lily-of-the-valley and a shaded lamp. The charred
manuscript-book lay in front of her, beside it a pile of undamaged copies.
The house was silent. Next door on a divan, covered by his hospital
dressing-gown, the master lay in a deep sleep, his regular breathing
inaudible from the next room.
Drying her tears, Margarita picked up one of the unharmed folios and
found the place that she had been reading before she had met Azazello
beneath the Kremlin wall. She had no wish to sleep. She smoothed the
manuscript tenderly as one strokes a favourite cat and turning it over in
her hands she inspected it from every angle, stopping now on the title page,
now at the end. A fearful thought passed through her mind that it was
nothing more than a piece of wizardry, that the folio might vanish from
sight, that she would wake up and find that she was in her bedroom at home
and it was time to get up and stoke the boiler. But this was only a last
terrible fantasy, the echo of long-borne suffering. Nothing vanished, the
all-powerful Woland really was all-powerful and Margarita was able to leaf
through the manuscript to her heart's content, till dawn if she wanted to,
stare at it, kiss it and re-read the words :
'The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city
that Pilate so detested . . .'
The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city that
Pilate so detested. The suspension bridges connecting the temple with the
grim fortress of Antonia vanished, the murk descended from the sky and
drowned the winged gods above the hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean
palace, the bazaars, the caravanserai, the alleyways, the pools . . .
Jerusalem, the great city, vanished as though it had never been. The mist
devoured everything, frightening every living creature in Jerusalem and its
surroundings. The city was engulfed by a strange cloud which had crept over
it from the sea towards the end of that day, the fourteenth of the month of
Nisan.
It had emptied its belly over Mount Golgotha, where the executioners
had hurriedly despatched their victims, it had flowed over the temple of
Jerusalem, pouring down in smoky cascades from the mound of the temple and
invading the Lower City. It had rolled through open windows and driven
people indoors from the winding streets. At first it held back its rain and
only spat lightning, the flame cleaving through the smoking black vapour,
lighting up the great pile of the temple and its glittering, scaly roof. But
the flash passed in a moment and the temple was plunged again into an abyss
of darkness. Several times it loomed through the murk to vanish again and
each time its disappearance was accompanied by a noise like the crack of
doom.
Other shimmering flashes lit up the palace of Herod the Great facing
the temple on the western hill; as they did so the golden statues, eyeless
and fearful, seemed to leap up into the black sky and stretch their arms
towards it. Then the fire from heaven would be quenched again and a great
thunderclap would banish the gilded idols into the mist.
The rainstorm burst suddenly and the storm turned into a hurricane. On
the very spot near a marble bench in the garden, where that morning the
Procurator had spoken to the High Priest, a thunderbolt snapped the trunk of
a cypress as though it had been a twig. With the water vapour and the hail,
the balcony under the arcade was swept with torn rose-heads, magnolia
leaves, small branches and sand as the hurricane scourged the garden.
At the moment when the storm broke only the Procurator was left beneath
the arcade.
He was no longer sitting in a chair but lying on a couch beside a small
low table laid with food and jugs of wine. Another, empty, couch stood on
the far side of the table. An untidy, blood-red puddle lay spread out at the
Procurator's feet amid the sherds of a broken jug. The servant who had laid
the Procurator's table had been so terrified by his look and so nervous at
his apparent displeasure that the Procurator had lost his temper with him
and smashed the jug on the mosaic floor, saying:
'Why don't you look me in the eyes when you serve me? Have you stolen
something? '
The African's black face turned grey, mortal terror came into his eyes
and he trembled so much that he almost broke another jug, but the Procurator
waved him away and the slave ran off, leaving the pool of spilt wine.
As the hurricane struck, the African hid himself in a niche beside a
statue of a white, naked woman with bowed head, afraid to show himself too
soon yet frightened of missing the call should the Procurator summon him.
Lying on his couch in the half-darkness of the storm the Procurator
poured out his own wine, drank it in long gulps, stretching out his arm for
an occasional piece of bread which he crumbled and ate in little pieces. Now
and again he would swallow an oyster, chew a slice of lemon and drink again.
Without the roar of water, without the claps of thunder which seemed to be
about to smash the palace roof, without the crash of hail that hammered on
the steps leading up to the balcony, a listener might have heard the
Procurator muttering as he talked to himself. And if the momentary flashes
of lightning had shone with a steady light an observer might have noticed
that the Procurator's face, the eyes inflamed with insomnia and wine, showed
impatience ; that the Procurator's glance was not only taken up by the two
yellow roses drowning in the red puddle, but that he was constantly turning
his face towards the garden, towards the water-lashed sand and mud; that he
was expecting someone, waiting impatiently.
A little time passed and the veil of water in front of the Procurator
began to thin out. The storm, though still furious, was abating. No more
branches creaked and fell. The lightning and thunder grew more infrequent.
The cloud hovering over Jerusalem was no longer violet edged with white but
a normal grey, the rearguard of the storm that was now moving onwards
towards the Dead Sea.
Soon the sound of the rain could be distinguished from the noise of
water running down the gutters and on to the staircase down which the
Procurator had walked to the square to pronounce sentence. At last even the
tinkle of the fountain, drowned until now, could be heard. It grew lighter.
Windows of blue began to appear in the grey veil as it fled eastward.
Then from far away, above the weak patter of rain, the Procurator heard
faint trumpet-calls and the tattoo of several score of horses' hooves. The
sound caused the Procurator to stir and his expression to liven. The ala was
returning from Mount Golgotha. To judge from the sound, they were just
crossing the hippodrome square.
At last the Procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps and the slap of
shoe-leather on the staircase leading to the upper terrace of the garden in
front of the balcony. The Procurator craned his neck and his eyes shone
expectantly.
Between the two marble lions there appeared first the cowled
head, then the figure of a man closely wrapped in his soaking wet
cloak. It was the same man with whom the Procurator, before pronouncing
sentence, had held a whispered conference in a darkened room of the palace,
and who had watched the execution as he played with a stick seated on a
three-legged stool.
Walking straight through the puddles, the cowled man crossed the
terrace, crossed the mosaic floor of the balcony, and raising his hand said
in a pleasant, high-pitched voice :
'Hail, Procurator! ' The visitor spoke in Latin.
'Gods! ' exclaimed Pilate. ' There's not a dry stitch on you!' What a
storm! Please go to my room at once and change.'
The man pushed back his cowl, revealing a completely wet head with the
hair plastered down over his forehead. With a polite smile on his
clean-shaven face he declined the offer of a change of clothing, assuring
the Procurator that a little rain would do him no harm.
'I won't hear of it,' replied Pilate. He clapped his hands, summoning
his cowering servant, and ordered him to help the visitor to change and then
to bring him some hot food.
The Procurator's visitor needed only a short while to dry his hair,
change his clothes, his footgear, and tidy himself up, and he soon
reappeared on the balcony in dry sandals, in a purple army cloak and with
his hair combed.
At that moment the sun returned to Jerusalem and before setting in the
Mediterranean it sent its parting rays over the Procurator's hated city and
gilded the balcony steps. The fountain was now playing again at full
strength, pigeons had landed on the terrace, cooing and hopping between the
broken twigs and pecking at the sand. The red puddle was mopped up, the
fragments removed, a steaming plateful of meat was set on the table.
'I await the Procurator's orders,' said the visitor as he approached
the table.
'Forget about my orders until you have sat down and drunk your wine,'
answered Pilate kindly, pointing to the other couch.
The man reclined, the servant poured some thick red wine into his cup.
Another servant, bending cautiously over Pilate's shoulder, filled the
Procurator's cup, after which he dismissed them both with a gesture.
While the visitor ate and drank Pilate sipped his wine and watched his
guest through narrowed eyes. The man was middle-aged with very pleasant,
neat, round features and a fleshy nose. The colour of his hair was vague,
though its colour lightened as it dried out. His nationality was hard to
guess. His main feature was a look of good nature, which was belied by his
eyes --or rather not so much by his eyes as by a peculiar way of looking at
the person facing him. Usually the man kept his small eyes shielded under
eyelids that were curiously enlarged, even swollen. At these moments the
chinks in his eyelids showed nothing but mild cunning, the look of a man
with a sense of humour. But there were times when the man who was now the
Procurator's guest opened his eyelids wide and gave a person a sudden,
unwavering stare as though to search out an inconspicuous spot on his nose.
It only lasted a moment, after which the lids dropped, the eyes narrowed
again and they shone with goodwill and sly intelligence.
The visitor accepted a second cup of wine, swallowed a few oysters with
obvious relish, tasted the boiled vegetables and ate a piece of meat. When
he had eaten his fill he praised the wine :
'An excellent vintage. Procurator--is it Falernian? '
'Cecuba--thirty years old,' replied the Procurator amiably.
The visitor placed his hand on his heart and declined the offer of more
to eat, saying that he had had enough. Pilate refilled his own cup and his
guest did the same. The two men each poured a libation into the dish of meat
and the Procurator, raising his cup, said in a loud voice :
'To thee, 0 Caesar, father of thy people, best and most beloved of
men.'
Both drank their wine to its dregs and the Africans cleared the dishes
from the table, leaving fruit and jugs of wine. The Procurator dismissed the
servants, and was left alone with his visitor under the arcade.
'So,' began Pilate quietly, ' what have you to tell me of the mood of
the city? ' Involuntarily he turned his glance downwards to where, past the
terraces of the garden, the colonnades and flat roofs glowed in the golden
rays of the setting sun.
'I believe, Procurator,' said his visitor, ' that the mood of
Jerusalem can now be regarded as satisfactory.'
'So I can rely on there being no further disorders? '
'One can only rely,' Arthanius replied with a reassuring glance at the
Procurator, ' on one thing in this world--on the power of great Caesar.'
'May the gods send him long life! ' Pilate said fervently, ' And
universal peace! ' He was silent for a moment then went on : ' What do you
think--can we withdraw the troops now? '
'I think the cohort from the Lightning can be sent away,' replied the
visitor, and added : ' It would be a good idea if it were to parade through
the city before leaving.'
'A very good idea,' said the Procurator approvingly. ' I shall order
it away the day after tomorrow. I shall also go myself and--I swear to you
by the feast of the twelve gods, I swear by the Lares--I would have given a
lot to have been able to do so today!'
'Does the Procurator not like Jerusalem?' enquired the visitor
amicably.
'Merciful heavens! ' exclaimed the Procurator, smiling. ' It's the
most unsettling place on earth. It isn't only the climate-- I'm ill every
time I have to come here--that's only half the trouble. But these festivals!
Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, the hordes of pilgrims. Fanatics--all of
them. And what price this messiah of theirs, which they're expecting this
year? Every moment there's likely to be some act of gratuitous bloodshed. I
spend all my time shuffling the troops about or reading denunciations and
complaints, half of which are directed at you. You must admit it's boring.
Oh, if only I weren't in the imperial service! '
'Yes, the festivals here are trying times,' agreed the visitor.
'I wish with all my heart that this one was over,' said Pilate
forcibly. ' Then I can go back to Caesarea. Do you know, this lunatic
building of Herod's'--the Procurator waved at the arcade, embracing the
whole palace in a gesture--' is positively driving me out of my mind. I
can't bear sleeping in it. It is the most extraordinary piece of
architecture in the world . . . However, to business. First of all--is that
cursed Bar-Abba giving you any trouble? '
At this the visitor directed his peculiar stare at the Procurator, but
Pilate was gazing wearily into the distance, frowning with distaste and
contemplating the quarter of the city which lay at his feet, fading into the
dusk. The visitor's glance also faded and his eyelids lowered again.
'I think that Bar is now as harmless as a lamb,' said the visitor, his
round face wrinkling. ' He is hardly in a position to make trouble now.'
'Too busy? ' asked Pilate, smiling.
'The Procurator, as usual, has put the point with great finesse.'
'But at all events,' remarked the Procurator anxiously and raised a
long, thin finger adorned with a black stone,' we must...'
'The Procurator may rest assured that as long as I am in Judaea Bar
will not move a step without my being on his heels.'
'That is comforting. I am always comforted when you are here.'
'The Procurator is too kind.'
'Now tell me about the execution,' said Pilate.
'What interests the Procurator in particular? '
'Chiefly, whether there were any attempts at insurrection from the
mob?'
'None,' answered the visitor.
'Good. Did you personally confirm that they were dead? '
'Of that the Procurator may be sure.'
'And tell me ... were they given a drink before being gibbeted?'
'Yes. But he '--the visitor closed his eyes--' refused to drink.' '
Who did? ' asked Pilate.
'I beg your pardon, hegemon! ' exclaimed the visitor. ' Didn't I say?
Ha-Notsri! '
'Madman! ' said Pilate, grimacing. A vein twitched under his left eye.
' To die of sunstroke! Why refuse what the law provides for? How did he
refuse? '
'He said,' replied the guest, shutting his eyes again, ' that he was
grateful and blamed no one for taking his life.'
'Whom did he thank? ' asked Pilate in a low voice.
'He did not say, hegemon . . .'
'He didn't try to preach to the soldiers, did he? '
'No, hegemon, he was not very loquacious on this occasion. His only
words were that he regarded cowardice as one of the worst human sins.'
'What made him say that? ' The Procurator's voice suddenly trembled.
'I have no idea. His behaviour was in any case strange, as it always
has been.'
'In what way strange? '
'He kept staring at individuals among the people standing around him,
and always with that curiously vague smile on his face.'
'Nothing more? ' asked the husky voice.
'Nothing more.'
The jug clattered against his cup as the Procurator poured himself some
more wine. Having drained it he said :
'My conclusion is as follows : although we have not been able--at
least not at present--to find any followers or disciples of his, we
nevertheless cannot be certain that he had none,'
The visitor nodded, listening intently.
'Therefore to avoid any untoward consequences,' the Procurator went
on, ' please remove the three victims' bodies from the face of the earth,
rapidly and without attracting attention. Bury them secretly and silently so
that nothing more is heard of them.'
'Very good, hegemon,' said the visitor. He stood up and said: ' As