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overall like a surgeon, with a pencil sticking out of his breast pocket. He
was clearly a man of great experience. Catching sight of a herring's tail
protruding from Behemoth's mouth he summed up the situation in a moment and
refusing to join in a shouting match with the two villains, waved his arm
and gave the order :
Whistle! '
The porter shot out into Smolensk Market and relieved his feelings with
a furious whistle-blast. As customers began edging up to the rogues and
surrounding them, Koroviev went into action.
'Citizens! ' he cried in a vibrant ringing voice,' What's going on
here? Eh? I appeal to you! This poor man '--Koroviev put a tremor into his
voice and pointed at Behemoth, who had immediately assumed a pathetic
expression--' this poor man has been mending a Primus all day. He's hungry .
. . where could he get any foreign currency? '
Pavel Yosifovich, usually calm and reserved, shouted grimly:
'Shut up, you! ' and gave another impatient wave of his arm. Just then
the automatic bell on the door gave a cheerful tinkle. Koroviev, quite
undisturbed by the manager's remark, went on:
'I ask you--where? He's racked with hunger and thirst, he's hot. So
the poor fellow tried a tangerine. It's only worth three kopecks at the
most, but they have to start whistling like nightingales in springtime,
bothering the police and stopping them from doing their proper job. But it's
all right for him isn't it?! '
Koroviev pointed at the fat man in the fawn coat, who exhibited violent
alarm. ' Who is he? Mm? Where's he from? Why is he here? Were we dying of
boredom without him? Did we invite him? Of course not! ' roared the
ex-choirmaster, his mouth twisted into a sarcastic leer. ' Look at him--in
his smart fawn coat, bloated with good Russian salmon, pockets bulging with
currency, and what about our poor comrade here? What about him, I ask you? '
wailed Koroviev, completely overcome by his own oratory.
This ridiculous, tactless and doubtless politically dangerous speech
made Pavel Yosifovich shake with rage, but strangely enough it was clear
from the looks of the customers that many of them approved of it. And when
Behemoth, wiping his eyes with a ragged cuff, cried tragically: ' Thank you,
friend, for speaking up for a poor man,' a miracle happened. A quiet,
dignified, little old man, shabbily but neatly dressed, who had been buying
three macaroons at the pastry counter, was suddenly transformed. His eyes
flashed fire, he turned purple, threw his bagfull of macaroons on to the
floor and shouted in a thin, childish voice : ' He's right! ' Then he picked
up a tray, threw away the remains of the chocolate-bar Eiffel Tower that
Behemoth had ruined, waved it about, pulled off the foreigner's hat with his
left hand, swung the tray with his right and brought it down with a crash on
the fawn man's balding head. There was a noise of the kind you hear when
sheet steel is thrown down from a lorry. Turning pale, the fat man staggered
and fell backwards into the barrel of salted herrings, sending up a fountain
of brine and fish-scales. This produced a second miracle. As the fawn man
fell into the barrel of fish he screamed in perfect Russian without a trace
of an accent:
'Help! Murder! They're trying to kill me! ' The shock had obviously
given him sudden command of a hitherto unknown language.
The porter had by now stopped whistling and through the crowd of
excited customers could be seen the approach of two police helmets. But the
cunning Behemoth poured paraffin from the Primus on to the counter and it
burst spontaneously into flame. It flared up and ran along the counter,
devouring the beautiful paper ribbons decorating the baskets of fruit. The
salesgirls leaped over the counter and ran away screaming as the flames
caught the blinds on the windows and more paraffin caught alight on the
floor.
With a shriek of horror the customers shuffled out of the
confectionery, sweeping aside the helpless Pavel Yosifovich, while the fish
salesmen galloped away towards the staff door, clutching their razor-sharp
knives.
Heaving himself out of the barrel the fawn man, covered in salt-herring
juice, staggered past the salmon counter and followed the crowd. There was a
tinkling and crashing of glass at the doorway as the public fought to get
out, whilst the two villains, Koroviev and the gluttonous Behemoth,
disappeared, no one knew where. Later, witnesses described having seen them
float up to the ceiling and then burst like a couple of balloons. This story
sounds too dubious for belief and we shall probably never know what really
happened.
We do know however that exactly a minute later Behemoth and Koroviev
were seen on the boulevard pavement just outside Griboyedov House. Koroviev
stopped by the railings and said:
'Look, there's the writers' club. You know. Behemoth, that house has a
great reputation. Look at it, my friend. How lovely to think of so much
talent ripening under that roof.'
'Like pineapples in a hothouse,' said Behemoth, climbing up on to the
concrete plinth of the railings for a better look at the yellow, colonnaded
house.
'Quite so,' agreed his inseparable companion Koroviev, ' and what a
delicious thrill one gets, doesn't one, to think that at this moment in that
house there may be the future author of a Don Quixote, or a Faust or who
knows--Dead Souls? '
'It could easily happen,' said Behemoth.
'Yes,' Koroviev went on, wagging a warning finger, ' but-- but, I say,
and I repeat--but! . . provided that those hothouse growths are not attacked
by some microorganism, provided they're not nipped in the bud, provided they
don't rot! And it can happen with pineapples, you know! Ah, yes, it can
happen!'
'Frightening thought,' said Behemoth.
'Yes,' Koroviev went on, ' think what astonishing growths may sprout
from the seedbeds of that house and its thousands of devotees of Melpomene,
Polyhymnia and Thalia. Just imagine the furore if one of them were to
present the reading public with a Government Inspector or at least a Eugene
Onegm!'
'By the way,' enquired the cat poking its round head through a gap in
the railings. ' what are they doing on the verandah? '
'Eating,' explained Koroviev. ' I should add that this place has a
very decent, cheap restaurant. And now that I think of it, like any tourist
starting on a long journey I wouldn't mind a snack and large mug of iced
beer.'
'Nor would I,' said Behemoth and the two rogues set off under the lime
trees and up the asphalt path towards the unsuspecting restaurant.
A pale, bored woman in white ankle-socks and a white tasselled beret
was sitting on a bentwood chair at the corner entrance to the verandah,
where there was an opening in the creeper-grown trellis. In front of her on
a plain kitchen table lay a large book like a ledger, in which for no known
reason the woman wrote the names of the people entering the restaurant. She
stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.
'Your membership cards?' she said, staring in surprise at Koroviev's
pince-nez, at Behemoth's Primus and grazed elbow.
'A thousand apologies, madam, but what membership cards? ' asked
Koroviev in astonishment.
'Are you writers? ' asked the woman in return.
'Indubitably,' replied Koroviev with dignity.
'Where are your membership cards? ' the woman repeated.
'Dear lady . . .' Koroviev began tenderly.
'I'm not a dear lady,' interrupted the woman.
'Oh, what a shame,' said Koroviev in a disappointed voice and went on
: ' Well, if you don't want to be a dear lady, which would have been
delightful, you have every right not to be. But look here--if you wanted to
make sure that Dostoyevsky was a writer, would you really ask him for his
membership card? Why, you only have to take any five pages of one of his
novels and you won't need a membership card to convince you that the man's a
writer. I don't suppose he ever had a membership card, anyway I What do you
think?' said Koroviev, turning to Behemoth.
'I'll bet he never had one,' replied the cat, putting the Primus on
the table and wiping the sweat from its brow with its paw.
You're not Dostoyevsky,' said the woman to Koroviev.
How do you know? '
'Dostoyevsky's dead,' said the woman, though not very confidently.
'I protest! ' exclaimed Behemoth warmly. ' Dostoyevsky is immortal!'
'Your membership cards, please,' said the woman.
'This is really all rather funny! ' said Koroviev, refusing to give
up. 'A writer isn't a writer because he has a membership card but because he
writes. How do you know what bright ideas may not be swarming in my head? Or
in his head? ' And he pointed at Behemoth's head. The cat removed its cap to
give the woman a better look at its head. ' Stand back, please,' she said,
irritated.
Koroviev and Behemoth stood aside and made way for a writer in a grey
suit and a white summer shirt with the collar turned out over his jacket
collar, no tie and a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded to the woman
and scribbled a flourish in the book as he passed through to the verandah.
'We can't,' said Koroviev sadly,' but he can have that mug of cold
beer which you and I, poor wanderers, were so longing for. We are in an
unhappy position and I see no way out.'
Behemoth only spread his paws bitterly and put his cap back on his
thick head of hair that much resembled cat's fur.
At that moment a quiet but authoritative voice said to the woman :
'Let them in, Sofia Pavlovna.'
The woman with the ledger looked up in astonishment. From behind the
trellis foliage loomed the pirate's white shirt-front and wedge-shaped
beard. He greeted the two ruffians with a welcoming look and even went so
far as to beckon them on. Archibald Archibaldovich made his authority felt
in this restaurant and Sofia Pavlovna obediently asked Koroviev :
'What is your name? '
'Panayev,' was the polite reply. The woman wrote down the name and
raised her questioning glance to Behemoth.
'Skabichevsky,' squeaked the cat, for some reason pointing to his
Primus. Sofia Pavlovna inscribed this name too and pushed the ledger forward
for the two visitors to sign. Koroviev wrote ' Skabichevsky' opposite the
name ' Panayev' and Behemoth wrote ' Panayev ' opposite ' Skabichevsky '.
To Sofia Pavlovna's utter surprise Archibald Archibaldovich gave her a
seductive smile, led his guests to the best table on the far side of the
verandah where there was the most shade, where the sunlight danced round the
table through one of the gaps in the trellis. Blinking with perplexity,
Sofia Pavlovna stared for a long time at the two curious signatures.
The waiters were no less surprised. Archibald Archibaldovich personally
moved the chairs back from the table, invited Koroviev to be seated, winked
at one, whispered to the other, while two waiters fussed around the new
arrivals, one of whom put his Primus on the floor beside his reddish-brown
boot.
The old stained tabledoth vanished instantly from the table and
another, whiter than a bedouin's burnous, flashed through the air in a
crackle of starch as Archibald Archibaldovich whispered, softly, but most
expressively, into Koroviev's ear :
'What can I offer you? I've a rather special fillet of smoked sturgeon
... I managed to save it from the architectural congress banquet...'
'Er . . . just bring us some hors d'oeuvres . . .' boomed Koroviev
patronisingly, sprawling in his chair.
'Of course,' replied Archibald Archibaldovich, closing his eyes in
exquisite comprehension.
Seeing how the maitre d'hotel was treating these two dubious guests,
the waiters abandoned their suspicions and set about their work seriously.
One offered a match to Behemoth, who had taken a butt-end out of his pocket
and stuck it in his mouth, another advanced in a tinkle of green glass and
laid out tumblers, claret-glasses and those tall-stemmed white wine glasses
which are so perfect for drinking a sparkling wine under the awning-- or
rather, moving on in time, which used to be so perfect for drinking
sparkling wine under the verandah awning at Griboyedov.
'A little breast of grouse, perhaps? ' said Archibald Archibaldovich
in a musical purr. The guest in the shaky pince-nez thoroughly approved the
pirate captain's suggestion and beamed at him through his one useless lens.
Petrakov-Sukhovei, the essayist, was dining at the next table with his
wife and had just finished eating a pork chop. With typical writer's
curiosity he had noticed the fuss that Archibald Archibaldovich was making
and was extremely surprised. His wife, a most dignified lady, felt jealous
of the pirate's attention to Koroviev and tapped her glass with a spoon as a
sign of impatience . . . where's my ice-cream? What's happened to the
service? With a flattering smile at Madame Petrakov, Archibald
Archibaldovich sent a waiter to her and stayed with his two special
customers. Archibald Archibaldovich was not only intelligent;
he was at least as observant as any writer. He knew all about the show
at the Variety and much else besides ; he had heard, and unlike most people
he had not forgotten, the words' checks ' and ' cat'. Archibald
Archibaldovich had immediately guessed who his clients were and realising
this, he was not going to risk having an argument with them. And Sofia
Pavlovna had tried to stop them coming on to the verandah! Still, what else
could you expect from her. . . .
Haughtily spooning up her melting ice-cream, Madame Petrakov watched
disagreeably as the table, occupied by what appeared to be a couple of
scarecrows, was loaded with food as if by magic. A bowl of fresh caviar,
garnished with sparkling lettuce leaves . . . another moment, and a silver
ice-bucket appeared on a special little side-table . . .
Only when he had made sure that all was properly in hand and when the
waiters had brought a simmering chafing-dish, did Archibald Archibaldovich
allow himself to leave his two mysterious guests, and then only after
whispering to them:
'Please excuse me--I must go and attend to the grouse!'
He fled from the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. If anyone
had observed what Archibald Archibaldovich did next, they might have thought
it rather strange.
The maitre d'hotel did not make for the kitchen to attend to the
grouse, but instead went straight to the larder. Opening it with his key, he
locked himself in, lifted two heavy fillets of smoked sturgeon out of the
ice box, taking care not to dirty his shirt-cuffs, wrapped them in
newspaper, carefully tied them up with string and put them to one side. Then
he went next door to check whether his silk-lined overcoat and hat were
there, and only then did he pass on to the kitchen, where the chef was
carefully slicing the breast of grouse.
Odd though Archibald Archibaldovich's movements may have seemed, they
were not, and would only have seemed so to a superficial observer. His
actions were really quite logical. His knowledge of recent events and above
all his phenomenal sixth sense told the Griboyedov maitre d'hotel that
although his two guests' meal would be plentiful and delicious, it would be
extremely short. And this ex-buccaneer's sixth sense, which had never yet
played him false, did not let him down this time, either.
Just as Koroviev and Behemoth were clinking their second glass of
delicious, chilled, double-filtered Moscow vodka, a journalist called Boba
Kaudalupsky, famous in Moscow for knowing everything that was going on,
arrived on the verandah sweating with excitement and immediately sat down at
the Petrakovs' table. Dropping his bulging briefcase on the table, Boba put
his lips to Petrakov's ear and whispered some obviously fascinating piece of
news. Dying with curiosity, madame Petra-kov leaned her ear towards Boba's
thick, fleshy lips. With furtive glances the journalist whispered on and on,
just loud enough for occasional words to be heard :
'I promise you! . . . Here, on Sadovaya Street. . .! ' Boba lowered
his voice again. ' . . . the bullets couldn't hit it ... bullets . . .
paraffin . . . fire . . . bullets . . .'
'Well, as for liars who spread rumours like that,' came madame
Petrakov's contralto boom, a shade too loud for Boba's liking, ' they're the
ones who should be shot! And they would be if I had my way. What a lot of
dangerous rubbish! '
'It's not rubbish Antonia Porfiryevna,' exclaimed Boba, piqued at her
disbelief. He began hissing again: ' I tell you, bullets couldn't touch it!
... And now the building's on fire . . . they floated out through the air
... through the air!' whispered Boba, never suspecting that the people he
was talking about were sitting alongside him and thoroughly enjoying the
situation.
However, their enjoyment was soon cut short. Three men, tightly belted,
booted and armed with revolvers, dashed out of the indoor restaurant and on
to the verandah. The man in front roared:
Don't move!' and instantly all three opened fire at the heads of
Koroviev and Behemoth. The two victims melted into the air and a sheet of
flame leaped up from the Primus to the awning. A gaping mouth with burning
edges appeared in the awning and began spreading in all directions. The fire
raced across it and reached the roof of Griboyedov House. Some bundles of
paper lying on the second-floor windowsill of the editor's office burst into
flame, which spread to a blind and then, as though someone had blown on it,
the fire was sucked, roaring, into the house.
A few seconds later the writers, their suppers abandoned, were
streaming along the asphalted paths leading to the iron railings along the
boulevard, where on Wednesday evening Ivan had climbed over to bring the
first incomprehensible news of disaster.
Having left in good time by a side door, without running and in no
hurry, like a captain forced to be the last to leave his flaming brig,
Archibald Archibaldovich calmly stood and watched it all. He wore his
silk-lined overcoat and two fillets of smoked sturgeon were tucked under his
arm.
At sunset, high above the town, on the stone roof of one of the most
beautiful buildings in Moscow, built about a century and a half ago, stood
two figures--Woland and Azazello. They were invisible from the street below,
hidden from the vulgar gaze by a balustrade adorned with stucco flowers in
stucco urns, although they could see almost to the limits of the city.
Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane.
His long, broad-bladed sword had been rammed vertically into the cleft
between two flagstones, making a sundial. Slowly and inexorably the shadow
of the sword was lengthening, creeping towards Satan's black slippers.
Resting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched on the stool with one leg
crossed over the other, Woland stared unwaveringly at the vast panorama of
palaces, huge blocks of flats and condemned slum cottages.
Azazello, without his usual garb of jacket, bowler and patent-leather
shoes and dressed instead like Woland in black, stood motionless at a short
distance from his master, also staring at the city.
Woland remarked:
'An interesting city, Moscow, don't you think? '
Azazello stirred and answered respectfully :
'I prefer Rome, messire.'
'Yes, it's a matter of taste,' replied Woland.
After a while his voice rang out again:
'What is that smoke over there--on the boulevard? ' ' That is
Griboyedov burning,' said Azazello.
'I suppose that inseparable couple, Koroviev and Behemoth, have been
there? '
'Without a doubt, messire.'
There was silence again and both figures on the roof stood watching the
setting sun reflected in all the westward-facing windows. Woland's eyes
shone with the same fire, even though he sat with his back to the sunset.
Then something made Woland turn his attention to a round tower behind
him on the roof. From its walls appeared a grim, ragged, mud-spattered man
with a beard, dressed in a chiton and home-made sandals.
'Ha! ' exclaimed Wolaud, with a sneer at the approaching figure. ' You
are the last person I expected to see here. What brings you here, of all
people? '
'I have come to see you, spirit of evil and lord of the shadows,' the
man replied with a hostile glare at Woland.
'Well, tax-gatherer, if you've come to see me, why don't you wish me
well? '
'Because I have no wish to see you well,' said the man impudently.
'Then I am afraid you will have to reconcile yourself to my good
health,' retorted Woland, his mouth twisted into a grin. ' As soon as you
appeared on this roof you made yourself ridiculous. It was your tone of
voice. You spoke your words as though you denied the very existence of the
shadows or of evil. Think, now : where would your good be if there were no
evil and what would the world look like without shadow? Shadows are thrown
by people and things. There's the shadow of my sword, for instance. But
shadows are also cast by trees and living things. Do you want to strip the
whole globe by removing every tree and every creature to satisfy your
fantasy of a bare world? You're stupid.'
'I won't argue with you, old sophist,' replied Matthew the Levite.
'You are incapable of arguing with me for the reason I have just
mentioned--you are too stupid,' answered Woland and enquired: ' Now tell me
briefly and without boring me why you are here? '
'He has sent me.'
'What message did he give you, slave? '
'I am not a slave,' replied Matthew the Levite, growing angrier, ' I
am his disciple.'
'You and I are speaking different languages, as always,' said Woland,
' but that does not alter the things we are talking about. Well?'
'He has read the master's writings,' said Matthew the Levite, ' and
asks you to take the master with you and reward him by granting him peace.
Would that be hard for you to do, spirit of evil?'
'Nothing is hard for me to do,' replied Woland, ' as you well know.'
He paused for a while and then added : ' Why don't you take him yourself, to
the light? '
'He has not earned light, he has earned rest,' said the Levite sadly.
'Tell him it shall be done,' said Woland, adding with a flash in his
eye : ' And leave me this instant.'
'He asks you also to take the woman who loved him and who has suffered
for him,' Matthew said to Woland, a note of entreaty in his voice for the
first time.
'Do you think that we needed you to make us think of that? Go away.'
Matthew the Levite vanished and Woland called to Azazello :
'Go and see them and arrange it.'
Azazello flew off, leaving Woland alone.
He was not, however, alone for long. The sound of footsteps and
animated voices were heard along the roof, and Koroviev and Behemoth
appeared. This time the cat had no Primus but was loaded with other things.
It was carrying a small gold-framed landscape under one arm, a half-burned
cook's apron in its paw, and on its other arm was a whole salmon complete
with skin and tail. Both Koroviev and Behemoth smclled of burning.
Behemoth's face was covered in soot and his cap was badly burned.
'Greetings, messire,' cried the tireless pair, and Behemoth waved his
salmon.
'You're a fine couple,' said Woland.
'Imagine, messire! ' cried Behemoth excitedly : ' they thought I was
looting! '
'Judging by that stuff,' replied Woland with a glance at the painting,
' they were right.'
'Believe me, messire . . .' the cat began in an urgently sincere
voice.
'No, I don't believe you,' was Woland's short answer.
'Messire, I swear I made heroic efforts to save everything I could,
but this was all that was left.'
It would be more interesting if you were to explain why Griboyedov
caught fire in the first place.'
Simultaneously Koroviev and Behemoth spread their hands and raised
their eyes to heaven. Behemoth exclaimed: ' It's a complete mystery! There
we were, harming no one, sitting quietly having a drink and a bite to eat
when . . .'
'. . . Suddenly--bang, bang, bang! We were being shot at! Crazed with
fright Behemoth and I started running for the street, our pursuers behind
us, and we made for Timiryazev! '
'But a sense of duty,' put in Behemoth, ' overcame our cowardice and
we went back.'
'Ah, you went back did you? ' said Woland. ' By then, of course, the
whole house was burnt to a cinder.'
'To a cinder! ' Koroviev nodded sadly. ' Literally to a cinder, as you
so accurately put it. Nothing but smouldering ashes.'
'I rushed into the assembly hall,' said Behemoth, '--the col-onnaded
room, messire--in case I could save something valuable. Ah, messire, if I
had a wife she would have been nearly widowed at least twenty times! Luckily
I'm not married and believe me I'm glad. Who'd exchange a bachelor's life
for a yoke round his neck?'
'More of his rubbish,' muttered Woland with a resigned glance upwards.
'Messire, I promise to keep to the point,' said the cat. ' As I was
saying--I could only save this little landscape. There was no time to
salvage anything else, the flames were singeing my fur. I ran to the larder
and rescued this salmon, and into the kitchen where I found this chef's
overall. I consider I did everything I could, messire, and I fail to
understand the sceptical expression on your face.'
'And what was Koroviev doing while you were looting? ' enquired
Woland.
'I was helping the fire brigade, messire,' answered Koroviev, pointing
to his torn trousers.
'In that case I suppose it was totally destroyed and they will have to
put up a new building.'
'It will be built, messire,' said Koroviev, ' I can assure you of
that.'
'Well, let us hope it will be better than the old one,' remarked
Woland.
'It will, messire,' said Koroviev.
'Believe me, it will,' added the cat. ' My sixth sense tells me
so.
'Nevertheless here we are, messire,' Koroviev reported, ' and we await
your instructions.'
Woland rose from his stool, walked over to the balustrade and turning
his back on his retinue stared for a long time over the city in lonely
silence. Then he turned back, sat down on his stool again and said :
'I have no instructions. You have done all you could and for the time
being I no longer require your services. You may rest. A thunderstorm is
coming and then we must be on our way.'
Very good, messire,' replied the two buffoons and vanished behind the
round tower in the centre of the roof.
The thunderstorm that Woland bad predicted was already gathering on the
horizon. A black cloud was rising in the west;
first a half and then all of the sun was blotted out. The wind on the
terrace freshened. Soon it was quite dark.
The cloud from the west enveloped the vast city. Bridges, buildings,
were all swallowed up. Everything vanished as though it had never been. A
single whip-lash of fire cracked across the sky, then the city rocked to a
clap of thunder. There came another ; the storm had begun. In the driving
rain Woland was no more to be seen.
'Do you know,' said Margarita, ' that just as you were going to sleep
last night I was reading about the mist that came in from the Mediterranean
. . . and those idols, ah, those golden idols! Somehow I co'uldn't get them
out of my mind. I think it's going to rain soon. Can you feel how it's
freshening? '
'That's all very fine,' replied the master, smoking and fanning the
smoke away with his hand. ' loot's forget about the idols . . . but what's
to become of us now, I'd like to know? '
This conversation took place at sunset, just when Matthew the Levite
appeared to Woland on the roof. The basement window was open and if anybody
had looked into it he would have been struck by the odd appearance of the
two people. Margarita had a plain black gown over her naked body and the
master was in his hospital pyjamas. Margarita had nothing else to wear. She
had left all her clothes at home and although her top-floor flat was not far
away there was, of course, no question of her going there to collect her
belongings. As for the master, all of whose suits were back in the wardrobe
as though he had never left, he simply did not feel like getting dressed
because, as he explained to Margarita, he had a premonition that some more
nonsense might be on the way. He had, however, had his first proper shave
since that autumn night, because the hospital staff had done no more than
trim his beard with electric clippers.
The room, too, looked strange and it was hard to discern any order
beneath the chaos. Manuscripts lay all over the floor and the divan. A Ibook
was lying, spine upwards, on the armchair. The round table was laid for
supper, several bottles standing among the plates of food. Margarita and the
master had no idea where all this food and drink had come from--it had
simply been there on the table when they woke up.
Having slept until Saturday evening both the master and his love felt
completely revived and only one symptom reminded them of their adventures of
the night before--both of them felt a slight ache in the left temple.
Psychologically both of them had changed considerably, as anyone would have
realised who overheard their conversation. But there was no one to overhear
them. The advantage of the little yard was that it was always empty. The
lime tree and the maple, turning greener with every day, exhaled the perfume
of spring and the rising breeze carried it into the basement.
'The devil! ' the master suddenly exclaimed. ' Just think of it . . .'
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and clasped his head in his
hands. ' Listen--you're intelligent and you haven't been in the madhouse as
I have ... do you seriously believe that we spent last night with Satan? '
'Quite seriously, I do . . .'
'Oh, of course, of course,' said the master ironically. ' There are
obviously two lunatics in the family now--husband and wife!' He raised his
arms to heaven and shouted : ' No, the devil knows what it was! . . .'
Instead of replying Margarita collapsed onto the divan, burst into
laughter, waved her bare legs in the air and practically shouted :
'Oh, I can't help it ... I can't help it ... If you could only see
yourself! '
When the master, embarrassed, had buttoned up his hospital pants,
Margarita grew serious.
'Just now you unwittingly spoke the truth,' she said. ' The devil does
know what it was and the devil believe me, will arrange everything! ' Her
eyes suddenly flashed, she jumped up, danced for joy and shouted: ' I'm so
happy, so happy, happy, that I made that bargain with him! Hurrah for the
devil! I'm afraid, my dear, that you're doomed to live with a witch! ' She
flung herself at the master, clasped him round the neck and began kissing
his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Floods of unkempt black hair caressed the
master's neck and shoulders while his face burned with kisses.
'You really are like a witch.'
'I don't deny it,' replied Margarita. ' I'm a witch and I'm very glad
of it.'
'All right,' said the master,' so you're a witch. Fine, splendid.
They've abducted me from the hospital--equally splendid. And they've brought
us back here, let us grant them that too. Let's even assume that neither of
us will be caught . . . But what, in the name of all that's holy, are we
supposed to live on? Tell me that, will you? You seem to care so little
about the problem that it really worries me.'
Just then a pair of blunt-toed boots and the lower part of a pair of
trousers appeared in the little basement window. Then the trousers bent at
the knee and the daylight was shut out by a man's ample bottom.
'Aloysius--are you there, Aloysius? ' asked a voice from slightly
above the trousers.
'It's beginning,' said the master.
'Aloysius? ' asked Margarita, moving closer to the window. ' He was
arrested yesterday. Who wants him? What's your name?'
Instantly the knees and bottom vanished, there came the click of the
gate and everything returned to normal. Again, Margarita collapsed on to the
divan and laughed until tears started from her eyes. When the fit was over
her expression changed completely, she grew serious, slid down from the
divan and crawled over to the master's knees. Staring him in the eyes, she
began to stroke his head.
'How you've suffered, my poor love! I'm the only one who knows how
much you've suffered. Look, there are grey and white threads in your hair
and hard lines round your mouth. My sweetest love, forget everything and
stop worrying. You've had to do too much thinking ; now I'm going to think
for you. I swear to you that everything is going to be perfect! ' ' I'm not
afraid of anything, Margot,' the master suddenly replied, raising his head
and looking just as he had when he had created that world he had never seen
yet knew to be true. ' I'm not afraid, simply because I have been through
everything that a man can go through. I've been so frightened that nothing
frightens me any longer. But I feel sorry for you, Margot, that's the point,
that's why I keep coming back to the same question. Think, Margarita--why
ruin your life for a sick pauper? Go back home. I feel sorry for you, that's
why I say this.'
'Oh, dear, dear, dear,' whispered Margarita, shaking her tousled head,
' you weak, faithless, stupid man! Why do you think I spent the whole of
last night prancing about naked, why do you think I sold my human nature and
became a witch, why do you think I spent months in this dim, damp little
hole thinking of nothing but the storm over Jerusalem, why do you think I
cried my eyes out when you vanished? You know why--yet when happiness
suddenly descends on us and gives us everything, you want to get rid of me!
All right, I'll go. But you're a cruel, cruel man. You've become completely
heartless.'
Bitter tenderness filled the master's heart and without knowing why he
burst into tears as he fondled Margarita's hair. Crying too, she whispered
to him as her fingers caressed his temple :
'There are more than just threads . . . your head is turning white
under my eyes . . . my poor suffering head. Look at your eyes! Empty . . .
And your shoulders, bent with the weight they've borne . . . they've
crippled you . . .' Margarita faded into delirium, sobbing helplessly.
Then the master dried his eyes, raised Margarita from her knees, stood
up himself and said firmly :
'That will do. You've made me utterly ashamed. I'll never mention it
again, I promise. I know that we are both suffering from some mental
sickness which you have probably caught from me . . . Well, we must see it
through together.'
Margarita put her Ups close to the master's ear and whispered :
'I swear by your life, I swear by the astrologer's son you created
that all will be well!'
'All right, I'll believe yon,' answered the master with a smile,
adding : ' Where else can such wrecks as you and I find help except from the
supernatural? So let's see what we can find in the other world.'
'There, now you're like you used to be, you're laughing,' said
Margarita. ' To hell with all your long words! Supernatural or not
supernatural, what do- I care? I'm hungry!' And she dragged the master
towards the table.
'I can't feel quite sure that this food isn't going to disappear
through the floor in a puff of smoke or fly out of the window,' said the
master.
'I promise you it won't.'
At that moment a nasal voice was heard at the window :
'Peace be with you.'
The master was startled but Margarita, accustomed to the unfamiliar,
cried:
It's Azazello! Oh, how nice!' And whispering to the master: ' You
see--they haven't abandoned us!' she ran to open the door.
'You should at least fasten the front of your dress,' the master
shouted after her.
'I don't care,' replied Margarita from the passage.
His blind eye glistening, Azazello came in, bowed and greeted the
master. Margarita cried :
Oh, how glad I am! I've never been so happy in my life! Forgive me,
Azazello, for meeting you naked like this.'
Azazello begged her not to let it worry her, assuring Margarita that he
had not only seen plenty of naked women in his time but even women who had
been skinned alive. First putting down a bundle wrapped in dark cloith, he
took a seat at the table.
Margarita poured Azazello a brandy, which he drank with relish. The
master, without staring at him, gently scratched his left wrist under the
table, but it had no effect. Azazello did not vanish into thin air and there
was no reason why he should. There was nothing terrible about this stocky
little demon with red hair, except perhaps his wall eye, but that afflicts
plenty of quite unmagical people, and except for his slightly unusual dress
--a kind of cassock or cape--but ordinary people sometimes wear clothes like
that too. He drank his brandy like all good men do, a whole glassful at a
time and on an empty stomach. The same brandy was already beginning to make
the master's head buzz and he said to himself:
'No, Margarita's right... of course this creature is an emissary of
the devil. After all only the day before yesterday I was proving to Ivan
that he had met Satan at Patriarch's Ponds, yet now the thought seems to
frighten me and I'm inventing excuses like hypnosis and hallucinations . . .
Hypnotism--hell!'
He studied Azazello's face and was convinced that there was ai certain
constraint in his look, some thought which he was holding back. ' He's not
just here on a visit, he has been sent here for a purpose,' thought the
master.
His powers of observation had not betrayed him. After his third glass
of brandy, which had no apparent effect on him, Azazello said:
'I must say it's comfortable, this little basement of yours, isn't it?
The only question is--what on earth are you going to do with yourselves, now
that you're here? '
'That is just what I have been wondering,' said the masteir with a
smile.
'Why do you make me feel uneasy, Azazello?' asked Margarita.
'Oh, come now!' exclaimed Azazello, ' I wouldn't dream of doing
anything to upset you. Oh yes! I nearly forgot . . . messire sends his
greetings and asks me to invite you to take a little trip with him--if you'd
like to, of course. What do you say to that?'
Margarita gently kicked the master's foot under the table.
'With great pleasure,' replied the master, studying Azazello. who went
on:
'We hope Margarita Nikolayevna won't refuse? '
'Of course not,' said Margarita, again brushing the master's foot with
her own.
'Splendid!' cried Azazello. ' That's what I like to see-- one, two and
away! Not like the other day in the Alexander Gardens!'
'Oh, don't remind me of that, Azazello, I was so stupid then. But you
can't really blame me--one doesn't meet the devil every day!'
'More's the pity,' said Azazello. ' Think what fun it would be if you
did!'
'I love the speed,' said Margarita excitedly, ' I love the speed and I
love being naked . . . just like a bullet from a gun--bang! Ah, how he can
shoot!' cried Margarita turning to the master. ' He can hit any pip of a
card--under a cushion too!' Margarita was beginning to get drunk and her
eyes were sparkling.
'Oh--I nearly torgot something else, too,' exclaimed Azazello,
slapping himself on the forehead. ' What a fool I am! Messire has sent you a
present'--here he spoke to the master--' a bottle of wine. Please note that
it is the same wine that the Procurator of Judaea drank. Falernian.'
This rarity aroused great interest in both Margarita and the master.
Azazello drew a sealed wine jar, completely covered in mildew, out of a
piece of an old winding-sheet. They sniffed the wine, then poured it into
glasses and looked through it towards the window. The light was already
fading with the approach of the storm. Filtered through the glass, the light
turned everything to the colour of blood.
'To Woland! ' exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.
All three put their lips to the glasses and drank a large mouthful.
Immediately the light began to fade before the master's eyes, his breath
came in gasps and he felt the end coming. He could just see Margarita,
deathly pale, helplessly stretch out her arms towards him, drop her head on
to the table and then slide to the floor.
'Poisoner . . .' the master managed to croak. He tried to snatch the
knife from the table to stab Azazello, but his hand slithered lifelessly
from the tablecloth, everything in the basement seemed to turn black and
then vanished altogether. He collapsed sideways, grazing his forehead on the
edge of the bureau as he fell.
When he was certain that the poison had taken effect, Azazello started
to act. First he flew out of the window and in a few moments he was in
Margarita's flat. Precise and efficient as ever, Azazello wanted to check
that everything necessary had been done. It had. Azazello saw a
depressed-looking woman, waiting for her husband to return, come out of her
bedroom and suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart and gasp helplessly :
'Natasha . . . somebody . . . help . . .' She fell to the drawing-room
floor before she had time to reach the study.
'All in order,' said Azazello. A moment later he was back with the
murdered lovers. Margarita lay face downward on the carpet. With his iron
hands Azazello turned her over like a doll and looked at her. The woman's
face changed before his eyes. Even in the twilight of the oncoming storm he
could see how her temporary witch's squint and her look of cruelty and
violence disappeared. Her expression relaxed and softened, her mouth lost
its predatory sneer and simply became the mouth of a woman in her last
agony. Then Azazello forced her white teeth apart and poured into her mouth
a few drops of the same wine that had poisoned her. Margarita sighed, rose
without Azazello's help, sat down and asked weakly :
'Why, Azazello, why? What have you done to me? '
She saw the master lying on the floor, shuddered and whispered:
'I didn't expect this . . . murderer! '
'Don't worry,' replied Azazello. ' He'll get up again in a minute. Why
must you be so nervous! '
He sounded so convincing that Margarita believed him at once. She
jumped up, alive and strong, and helped to give the master some of the wine.
Opening his eyes he gave a stare of grim hatred and repeated his last word :
'Poisoner . . .'
'Oh well, insults are the usual reward for a job well done!' said
Azazello. ' Are you blind? You'll soon see sense.'
The master got up, looked round briskly and asked :
'Now what does all this mean? '
'It means,' replied Azazello, ' that it's time for us to go. The
thunderstorm has already begun--can you hear? It's getting dark. The horses
are pawing the ground and making your little garden shudder. You must say
goodbye, quickly.'
'Ah, I understand,' said the master, gating round, ' you have killed
us. We are dead. How clever--and how timely. Now I see it all.'
'Oh come,' replied Azazello, ' what did I hear you say? Your beloved
calls you the master, you're an intelligent being--how can you be dead? It's
ridiculous . . '
'I understand what you mean,' cried the master, ' don't go on! You're
right--a thousand times right! '
'The great Woland! ' Margarita said to him urgently, ' the great
Woland! His solution was much better than mine! But the novel, the novel!'
she shouted at the master,' take the novel with you, wherever you may be
going! '
'No need,' replied the master,' I can remember it all by heart.'
'But you . . . you won't forget a word? ' asked Margarita, embracing
her lover and wiping the blood from his bruised forehead.
'Don't worry. I shall never forget anything again,' he answered.
'Then the fire! ' cried Azazello. ' The fire--where it all began and
where we shall end it! '
'The fire! ' Margarita cried in a terrible voice. The basement windows
were banging, the blind was blown aside by the wind. There was a short,
cheerful clap of thunder. Azazello thrust his bony hand into the stove,
pulled out a smouldering log and used it to light the tablecloth. Then he
was clearly a man of great experience. Catching sight of a herring's tail
protruding from Behemoth's mouth he summed up the situation in a moment and
refusing to join in a shouting match with the two villains, waved his arm
and gave the order :
Whistle! '
The porter shot out into Smolensk Market and relieved his feelings with
a furious whistle-blast. As customers began edging up to the rogues and
surrounding them, Koroviev went into action.
'Citizens! ' he cried in a vibrant ringing voice,' What's going on
here? Eh? I appeal to you! This poor man '--Koroviev put a tremor into his
voice and pointed at Behemoth, who had immediately assumed a pathetic
expression--' this poor man has been mending a Primus all day. He's hungry .
. . where could he get any foreign currency? '
Pavel Yosifovich, usually calm and reserved, shouted grimly:
'Shut up, you! ' and gave another impatient wave of his arm. Just then
the automatic bell on the door gave a cheerful tinkle. Koroviev, quite
undisturbed by the manager's remark, went on:
'I ask you--where? He's racked with hunger and thirst, he's hot. So
the poor fellow tried a tangerine. It's only worth three kopecks at the
most, but they have to start whistling like nightingales in springtime,
bothering the police and stopping them from doing their proper job. But it's
all right for him isn't it?! '
Koroviev pointed at the fat man in the fawn coat, who exhibited violent
alarm. ' Who is he? Mm? Where's he from? Why is he here? Were we dying of
boredom without him? Did we invite him? Of course not! ' roared the
ex-choirmaster, his mouth twisted into a sarcastic leer. ' Look at him--in
his smart fawn coat, bloated with good Russian salmon, pockets bulging with
currency, and what about our poor comrade here? What about him, I ask you? '
wailed Koroviev, completely overcome by his own oratory.
This ridiculous, tactless and doubtless politically dangerous speech
made Pavel Yosifovich shake with rage, but strangely enough it was clear
from the looks of the customers that many of them approved of it. And when
Behemoth, wiping his eyes with a ragged cuff, cried tragically: ' Thank you,
friend, for speaking up for a poor man,' a miracle happened. A quiet,
dignified, little old man, shabbily but neatly dressed, who had been buying
three macaroons at the pastry counter, was suddenly transformed. His eyes
flashed fire, he turned purple, threw his bagfull of macaroons on to the
floor and shouted in a thin, childish voice : ' He's right! ' Then he picked
up a tray, threw away the remains of the chocolate-bar Eiffel Tower that
Behemoth had ruined, waved it about, pulled off the foreigner's hat with his
left hand, swung the tray with his right and brought it down with a crash on
the fawn man's balding head. There was a noise of the kind you hear when
sheet steel is thrown down from a lorry. Turning pale, the fat man staggered
and fell backwards into the barrel of salted herrings, sending up a fountain
of brine and fish-scales. This produced a second miracle. As the fawn man
fell into the barrel of fish he screamed in perfect Russian without a trace
of an accent:
'Help! Murder! They're trying to kill me! ' The shock had obviously
given him sudden command of a hitherto unknown language.
The porter had by now stopped whistling and through the crowd of
excited customers could be seen the approach of two police helmets. But the
cunning Behemoth poured paraffin from the Primus on to the counter and it
burst spontaneously into flame. It flared up and ran along the counter,
devouring the beautiful paper ribbons decorating the baskets of fruit. The
salesgirls leaped over the counter and ran away screaming as the flames
caught the blinds on the windows and more paraffin caught alight on the
floor.
With a shriek of horror the customers shuffled out of the
confectionery, sweeping aside the helpless Pavel Yosifovich, while the fish
salesmen galloped away towards the staff door, clutching their razor-sharp
knives.
Heaving himself out of the barrel the fawn man, covered in salt-herring
juice, staggered past the salmon counter and followed the crowd. There was a
tinkling and crashing of glass at the doorway as the public fought to get
out, whilst the two villains, Koroviev and the gluttonous Behemoth,
disappeared, no one knew where. Later, witnesses described having seen them
float up to the ceiling and then burst like a couple of balloons. This story
sounds too dubious for belief and we shall probably never know what really
happened.
We do know however that exactly a minute later Behemoth and Koroviev
were seen on the boulevard pavement just outside Griboyedov House. Koroviev
stopped by the railings and said:
'Look, there's the writers' club. You know. Behemoth, that house has a
great reputation. Look at it, my friend. How lovely to think of so much
talent ripening under that roof.'
'Like pineapples in a hothouse,' said Behemoth, climbing up on to the
concrete plinth of the railings for a better look at the yellow, colonnaded
house.
'Quite so,' agreed his inseparable companion Koroviev, ' and what a
delicious thrill one gets, doesn't one, to think that at this moment in that
house there may be the future author of a Don Quixote, or a Faust or who
knows--Dead Souls? '
'It could easily happen,' said Behemoth.
'Yes,' Koroviev went on, wagging a warning finger, ' but-- but, I say,
and I repeat--but! . . provided that those hothouse growths are not attacked
by some microorganism, provided they're not nipped in the bud, provided they
don't rot! And it can happen with pineapples, you know! Ah, yes, it can
happen!'
'Frightening thought,' said Behemoth.
'Yes,' Koroviev went on, ' think what astonishing growths may sprout
from the seedbeds of that house and its thousands of devotees of Melpomene,
Polyhymnia and Thalia. Just imagine the furore if one of them were to
present the reading public with a Government Inspector or at least a Eugene
Onegm!'
'By the way,' enquired the cat poking its round head through a gap in
the railings. ' what are they doing on the verandah? '
'Eating,' explained Koroviev. ' I should add that this place has a
very decent, cheap restaurant. And now that I think of it, like any tourist
starting on a long journey I wouldn't mind a snack and large mug of iced
beer.'
'Nor would I,' said Behemoth and the two rogues set off under the lime
trees and up the asphalt path towards the unsuspecting restaurant.
A pale, bored woman in white ankle-socks and a white tasselled beret
was sitting on a bentwood chair at the corner entrance to the verandah,
where there was an opening in the creeper-grown trellis. In front of her on
a plain kitchen table lay a large book like a ledger, in which for no known
reason the woman wrote the names of the people entering the restaurant. She
stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.
'Your membership cards?' she said, staring in surprise at Koroviev's
pince-nez, at Behemoth's Primus and grazed elbow.
'A thousand apologies, madam, but what membership cards? ' asked
Koroviev in astonishment.
'Are you writers? ' asked the woman in return.
'Indubitably,' replied Koroviev with dignity.
'Where are your membership cards? ' the woman repeated.
'Dear lady . . .' Koroviev began tenderly.
'I'm not a dear lady,' interrupted the woman.
'Oh, what a shame,' said Koroviev in a disappointed voice and went on
: ' Well, if you don't want to be a dear lady, which would have been
delightful, you have every right not to be. But look here--if you wanted to
make sure that Dostoyevsky was a writer, would you really ask him for his
membership card? Why, you only have to take any five pages of one of his
novels and you won't need a membership card to convince you that the man's a
writer. I don't suppose he ever had a membership card, anyway I What do you
think?' said Koroviev, turning to Behemoth.
'I'll bet he never had one,' replied the cat, putting the Primus on
the table and wiping the sweat from its brow with its paw.
You're not Dostoyevsky,' said the woman to Koroviev.
How do you know? '
'Dostoyevsky's dead,' said the woman, though not very confidently.
'I protest! ' exclaimed Behemoth warmly. ' Dostoyevsky is immortal!'
'Your membership cards, please,' said the woman.
'This is really all rather funny! ' said Koroviev, refusing to give
up. 'A writer isn't a writer because he has a membership card but because he
writes. How do you know what bright ideas may not be swarming in my head? Or
in his head? ' And he pointed at Behemoth's head. The cat removed its cap to
give the woman a better look at its head. ' Stand back, please,' she said,
irritated.
Koroviev and Behemoth stood aside and made way for a writer in a grey
suit and a white summer shirt with the collar turned out over his jacket
collar, no tie and a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded to the woman
and scribbled a flourish in the book as he passed through to the verandah.
'We can't,' said Koroviev sadly,' but he can have that mug of cold
beer which you and I, poor wanderers, were so longing for. We are in an
unhappy position and I see no way out.'
Behemoth only spread his paws bitterly and put his cap back on his
thick head of hair that much resembled cat's fur.
At that moment a quiet but authoritative voice said to the woman :
'Let them in, Sofia Pavlovna.'
The woman with the ledger looked up in astonishment. From behind the
trellis foliage loomed the pirate's white shirt-front and wedge-shaped
beard. He greeted the two ruffians with a welcoming look and even went so
far as to beckon them on. Archibald Archibaldovich made his authority felt
in this restaurant and Sofia Pavlovna obediently asked Koroviev :
'What is your name? '
'Panayev,' was the polite reply. The woman wrote down the name and
raised her questioning glance to Behemoth.
'Skabichevsky,' squeaked the cat, for some reason pointing to his
Primus. Sofia Pavlovna inscribed this name too and pushed the ledger forward
for the two visitors to sign. Koroviev wrote ' Skabichevsky' opposite the
name ' Panayev' and Behemoth wrote ' Panayev ' opposite ' Skabichevsky '.
To Sofia Pavlovna's utter surprise Archibald Archibaldovich gave her a
seductive smile, led his guests to the best table on the far side of the
verandah where there was the most shade, where the sunlight danced round the
table through one of the gaps in the trellis. Blinking with perplexity,
Sofia Pavlovna stared for a long time at the two curious signatures.
The waiters were no less surprised. Archibald Archibaldovich personally
moved the chairs back from the table, invited Koroviev to be seated, winked
at one, whispered to the other, while two waiters fussed around the new
arrivals, one of whom put his Primus on the floor beside his reddish-brown
boot.
The old stained tabledoth vanished instantly from the table and
another, whiter than a bedouin's burnous, flashed through the air in a
crackle of starch as Archibald Archibaldovich whispered, softly, but most
expressively, into Koroviev's ear :
'What can I offer you? I've a rather special fillet of smoked sturgeon
... I managed to save it from the architectural congress banquet...'
'Er . . . just bring us some hors d'oeuvres . . .' boomed Koroviev
patronisingly, sprawling in his chair.
'Of course,' replied Archibald Archibaldovich, closing his eyes in
exquisite comprehension.
Seeing how the maitre d'hotel was treating these two dubious guests,
the waiters abandoned their suspicions and set about their work seriously.
One offered a match to Behemoth, who had taken a butt-end out of his pocket
and stuck it in his mouth, another advanced in a tinkle of green glass and
laid out tumblers, claret-glasses and those tall-stemmed white wine glasses
which are so perfect for drinking a sparkling wine under the awning-- or
rather, moving on in time, which used to be so perfect for drinking
sparkling wine under the verandah awning at Griboyedov.
'A little breast of grouse, perhaps? ' said Archibald Archibaldovich
in a musical purr. The guest in the shaky pince-nez thoroughly approved the
pirate captain's suggestion and beamed at him through his one useless lens.
Petrakov-Sukhovei, the essayist, was dining at the next table with his
wife and had just finished eating a pork chop. With typical writer's
curiosity he had noticed the fuss that Archibald Archibaldovich was making
and was extremely surprised. His wife, a most dignified lady, felt jealous
of the pirate's attention to Koroviev and tapped her glass with a spoon as a
sign of impatience . . . where's my ice-cream? What's happened to the
service? With a flattering smile at Madame Petrakov, Archibald
Archibaldovich sent a waiter to her and stayed with his two special
customers. Archibald Archibaldovich was not only intelligent;
he was at least as observant as any writer. He knew all about the show
at the Variety and much else besides ; he had heard, and unlike most people
he had not forgotten, the words' checks ' and ' cat'. Archibald
Archibaldovich had immediately guessed who his clients were and realising
this, he was not going to risk having an argument with them. And Sofia
Pavlovna had tried to stop them coming on to the verandah! Still, what else
could you expect from her. . . .
Haughtily spooning up her melting ice-cream, Madame Petrakov watched
disagreeably as the table, occupied by what appeared to be a couple of
scarecrows, was loaded with food as if by magic. A bowl of fresh caviar,
garnished with sparkling lettuce leaves . . . another moment, and a silver
ice-bucket appeared on a special little side-table . . .
Only when he had made sure that all was properly in hand and when the
waiters had brought a simmering chafing-dish, did Archibald Archibaldovich
allow himself to leave his two mysterious guests, and then only after
whispering to them:
'Please excuse me--I must go and attend to the grouse!'
He fled from the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. If anyone
had observed what Archibald Archibaldovich did next, they might have thought
it rather strange.
The maitre d'hotel did not make for the kitchen to attend to the
grouse, but instead went straight to the larder. Opening it with his key, he
locked himself in, lifted two heavy fillets of smoked sturgeon out of the
ice box, taking care not to dirty his shirt-cuffs, wrapped them in
newspaper, carefully tied them up with string and put them to one side. Then
he went next door to check whether his silk-lined overcoat and hat were
there, and only then did he pass on to the kitchen, where the chef was
carefully slicing the breast of grouse.
Odd though Archibald Archibaldovich's movements may have seemed, they
were not, and would only have seemed so to a superficial observer. His
actions were really quite logical. His knowledge of recent events and above
all his phenomenal sixth sense told the Griboyedov maitre d'hotel that
although his two guests' meal would be plentiful and delicious, it would be
extremely short. And this ex-buccaneer's sixth sense, which had never yet
played him false, did not let him down this time, either.
Just as Koroviev and Behemoth were clinking their second glass of
delicious, chilled, double-filtered Moscow vodka, a journalist called Boba
Kaudalupsky, famous in Moscow for knowing everything that was going on,
arrived on the verandah sweating with excitement and immediately sat down at
the Petrakovs' table. Dropping his bulging briefcase on the table, Boba put
his lips to Petrakov's ear and whispered some obviously fascinating piece of
news. Dying with curiosity, madame Petra-kov leaned her ear towards Boba's
thick, fleshy lips. With furtive glances the journalist whispered on and on,
just loud enough for occasional words to be heard :
'I promise you! . . . Here, on Sadovaya Street. . .! ' Boba lowered
his voice again. ' . . . the bullets couldn't hit it ... bullets . . .
paraffin . . . fire . . . bullets . . .'
'Well, as for liars who spread rumours like that,' came madame
Petrakov's contralto boom, a shade too loud for Boba's liking, ' they're the
ones who should be shot! And they would be if I had my way. What a lot of
dangerous rubbish! '
'It's not rubbish Antonia Porfiryevna,' exclaimed Boba, piqued at her
disbelief. He began hissing again: ' I tell you, bullets couldn't touch it!
... And now the building's on fire . . . they floated out through the air
... through the air!' whispered Boba, never suspecting that the people he
was talking about were sitting alongside him and thoroughly enjoying the
situation.
However, their enjoyment was soon cut short. Three men, tightly belted,
booted and armed with revolvers, dashed out of the indoor restaurant and on
to the verandah. The man in front roared:
Don't move!' and instantly all three opened fire at the heads of
Koroviev and Behemoth. The two victims melted into the air and a sheet of
flame leaped up from the Primus to the awning. A gaping mouth with burning
edges appeared in the awning and began spreading in all directions. The fire
raced across it and reached the roof of Griboyedov House. Some bundles of
paper lying on the second-floor windowsill of the editor's office burst into
flame, which spread to a blind and then, as though someone had blown on it,
the fire was sucked, roaring, into the house.
A few seconds later the writers, their suppers abandoned, were
streaming along the asphalted paths leading to the iron railings along the
boulevard, where on Wednesday evening Ivan had climbed over to bring the
first incomprehensible news of disaster.
Having left in good time by a side door, without running and in no
hurry, like a captain forced to be the last to leave his flaming brig,
Archibald Archibaldovich calmly stood and watched it all. He wore his
silk-lined overcoat and two fillets of smoked sturgeon were tucked under his
arm.
At sunset, high above the town, on the stone roof of one of the most
beautiful buildings in Moscow, built about a century and a half ago, stood
two figures--Woland and Azazello. They were invisible from the street below,
hidden from the vulgar gaze by a balustrade adorned with stucco flowers in
stucco urns, although they could see almost to the limits of the city.
Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane.
His long, broad-bladed sword had been rammed vertically into the cleft
between two flagstones, making a sundial. Slowly and inexorably the shadow
of the sword was lengthening, creeping towards Satan's black slippers.
Resting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched on the stool with one leg
crossed over the other, Woland stared unwaveringly at the vast panorama of
palaces, huge blocks of flats and condemned slum cottages.
Azazello, without his usual garb of jacket, bowler and patent-leather
shoes and dressed instead like Woland in black, stood motionless at a short
distance from his master, also staring at the city.
Woland remarked:
'An interesting city, Moscow, don't you think? '
Azazello stirred and answered respectfully :
'I prefer Rome, messire.'
'Yes, it's a matter of taste,' replied Woland.
After a while his voice rang out again:
'What is that smoke over there--on the boulevard? ' ' That is
Griboyedov burning,' said Azazello.
'I suppose that inseparable couple, Koroviev and Behemoth, have been
there? '
'Without a doubt, messire.'
There was silence again and both figures on the roof stood watching the
setting sun reflected in all the westward-facing windows. Woland's eyes
shone with the same fire, even though he sat with his back to the sunset.
Then something made Woland turn his attention to a round tower behind
him on the roof. From its walls appeared a grim, ragged, mud-spattered man
with a beard, dressed in a chiton and home-made sandals.
'Ha! ' exclaimed Wolaud, with a sneer at the approaching figure. ' You
are the last person I expected to see here. What brings you here, of all
people? '
'I have come to see you, spirit of evil and lord of the shadows,' the
man replied with a hostile glare at Woland.
'Well, tax-gatherer, if you've come to see me, why don't you wish me
well? '
'Because I have no wish to see you well,' said the man impudently.
'Then I am afraid you will have to reconcile yourself to my good
health,' retorted Woland, his mouth twisted into a grin. ' As soon as you
appeared on this roof you made yourself ridiculous. It was your tone of
voice. You spoke your words as though you denied the very existence of the
shadows or of evil. Think, now : where would your good be if there were no
evil and what would the world look like without shadow? Shadows are thrown
by people and things. There's the shadow of my sword, for instance. But
shadows are also cast by trees and living things. Do you want to strip the
whole globe by removing every tree and every creature to satisfy your
fantasy of a bare world? You're stupid.'
'I won't argue with you, old sophist,' replied Matthew the Levite.
'You are incapable of arguing with me for the reason I have just
mentioned--you are too stupid,' answered Woland and enquired: ' Now tell me
briefly and without boring me why you are here? '
'He has sent me.'
'What message did he give you, slave? '
'I am not a slave,' replied Matthew the Levite, growing angrier, ' I
am his disciple.'
'You and I are speaking different languages, as always,' said Woland,
' but that does not alter the things we are talking about. Well?'
'He has read the master's writings,' said Matthew the Levite, ' and
asks you to take the master with you and reward him by granting him peace.
Would that be hard for you to do, spirit of evil?'
'Nothing is hard for me to do,' replied Woland, ' as you well know.'
He paused for a while and then added : ' Why don't you take him yourself, to
the light? '
'He has not earned light, he has earned rest,' said the Levite sadly.
'Tell him it shall be done,' said Woland, adding with a flash in his
eye : ' And leave me this instant.'
'He asks you also to take the woman who loved him and who has suffered
for him,' Matthew said to Woland, a note of entreaty in his voice for the
first time.
'Do you think that we needed you to make us think of that? Go away.'
Matthew the Levite vanished and Woland called to Azazello :
'Go and see them and arrange it.'
Azazello flew off, leaving Woland alone.
He was not, however, alone for long. The sound of footsteps and
animated voices were heard along the roof, and Koroviev and Behemoth
appeared. This time the cat had no Primus but was loaded with other things.
It was carrying a small gold-framed landscape under one arm, a half-burned
cook's apron in its paw, and on its other arm was a whole salmon complete
with skin and tail. Both Koroviev and Behemoth smclled of burning.
Behemoth's face was covered in soot and his cap was badly burned.
'Greetings, messire,' cried the tireless pair, and Behemoth waved his
salmon.
'You're a fine couple,' said Woland.
'Imagine, messire! ' cried Behemoth excitedly : ' they thought I was
looting! '
'Judging by that stuff,' replied Woland with a glance at the painting,
' they were right.'
'Believe me, messire . . .' the cat began in an urgently sincere
voice.
'No, I don't believe you,' was Woland's short answer.
'Messire, I swear I made heroic efforts to save everything I could,
but this was all that was left.'
It would be more interesting if you were to explain why Griboyedov
caught fire in the first place.'
Simultaneously Koroviev and Behemoth spread their hands and raised
their eyes to heaven. Behemoth exclaimed: ' It's a complete mystery! There
we were, harming no one, sitting quietly having a drink and a bite to eat
when . . .'
'. . . Suddenly--bang, bang, bang! We were being shot at! Crazed with
fright Behemoth and I started running for the street, our pursuers behind
us, and we made for Timiryazev! '
'But a sense of duty,' put in Behemoth, ' overcame our cowardice and
we went back.'
'Ah, you went back did you? ' said Woland. ' By then, of course, the
whole house was burnt to a cinder.'
'To a cinder! ' Koroviev nodded sadly. ' Literally to a cinder, as you
so accurately put it. Nothing but smouldering ashes.'
'I rushed into the assembly hall,' said Behemoth, '--the col-onnaded
room, messire--in case I could save something valuable. Ah, messire, if I
had a wife she would have been nearly widowed at least twenty times! Luckily
I'm not married and believe me I'm glad. Who'd exchange a bachelor's life
for a yoke round his neck?'
'More of his rubbish,' muttered Woland with a resigned glance upwards.
'Messire, I promise to keep to the point,' said the cat. ' As I was
saying--I could only save this little landscape. There was no time to
salvage anything else, the flames were singeing my fur. I ran to the larder
and rescued this salmon, and into the kitchen where I found this chef's
overall. I consider I did everything I could, messire, and I fail to
understand the sceptical expression on your face.'
'And what was Koroviev doing while you were looting? ' enquired
Woland.
'I was helping the fire brigade, messire,' answered Koroviev, pointing
to his torn trousers.
'In that case I suppose it was totally destroyed and they will have to
put up a new building.'
'It will be built, messire,' said Koroviev, ' I can assure you of
that.'
'Well, let us hope it will be better than the old one,' remarked
Woland.
'It will, messire,' said Koroviev.
'Believe me, it will,' added the cat. ' My sixth sense tells me
so.
'Nevertheless here we are, messire,' Koroviev reported, ' and we await
your instructions.'
Woland rose from his stool, walked over to the balustrade and turning
his back on his retinue stared for a long time over the city in lonely
silence. Then he turned back, sat down on his stool again and said :
'I have no instructions. You have done all you could and for the time
being I no longer require your services. You may rest. A thunderstorm is
coming and then we must be on our way.'
Very good, messire,' replied the two buffoons and vanished behind the
round tower in the centre of the roof.
The thunderstorm that Woland bad predicted was already gathering on the
horizon. A black cloud was rising in the west;
first a half and then all of the sun was blotted out. The wind on the
terrace freshened. Soon it was quite dark.
The cloud from the west enveloped the vast city. Bridges, buildings,
were all swallowed up. Everything vanished as though it had never been. A
single whip-lash of fire cracked across the sky, then the city rocked to a
clap of thunder. There came another ; the storm had begun. In the driving
rain Woland was no more to be seen.
'Do you know,' said Margarita, ' that just as you were going to sleep
last night I was reading about the mist that came in from the Mediterranean
. . . and those idols, ah, those golden idols! Somehow I co'uldn't get them
out of my mind. I think it's going to rain soon. Can you feel how it's
freshening? '
'That's all very fine,' replied the master, smoking and fanning the
smoke away with his hand. ' loot's forget about the idols . . . but what's
to become of us now, I'd like to know? '
This conversation took place at sunset, just when Matthew the Levite
appeared to Woland on the roof. The basement window was open and if anybody
had looked into it he would have been struck by the odd appearance of the
two people. Margarita had a plain black gown over her naked body and the
master was in his hospital pyjamas. Margarita had nothing else to wear. She
had left all her clothes at home and although her top-floor flat was not far
away there was, of course, no question of her going there to collect her
belongings. As for the master, all of whose suits were back in the wardrobe
as though he had never left, he simply did not feel like getting dressed
because, as he explained to Margarita, he had a premonition that some more
nonsense might be on the way. He had, however, had his first proper shave
since that autumn night, because the hospital staff had done no more than
trim his beard with electric clippers.
The room, too, looked strange and it was hard to discern any order
beneath the chaos. Manuscripts lay all over the floor and the divan. A Ibook
was lying, spine upwards, on the armchair. The round table was laid for
supper, several bottles standing among the plates of food. Margarita and the
master had no idea where all this food and drink had come from--it had
simply been there on the table when they woke up.
Having slept until Saturday evening both the master and his love felt
completely revived and only one symptom reminded them of their adventures of
the night before--both of them felt a slight ache in the left temple.
Psychologically both of them had changed considerably, as anyone would have
realised who overheard their conversation. But there was no one to overhear
them. The advantage of the little yard was that it was always empty. The
lime tree and the maple, turning greener with every day, exhaled the perfume
of spring and the rising breeze carried it into the basement.
'The devil! ' the master suddenly exclaimed. ' Just think of it . . .'
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and clasped his head in his
hands. ' Listen--you're intelligent and you haven't been in the madhouse as
I have ... do you seriously believe that we spent last night with Satan? '
'Quite seriously, I do . . .'
'Oh, of course, of course,' said the master ironically. ' There are
obviously two lunatics in the family now--husband and wife!' He raised his
arms to heaven and shouted : ' No, the devil knows what it was! . . .'
Instead of replying Margarita collapsed onto the divan, burst into
laughter, waved her bare legs in the air and practically shouted :
'Oh, I can't help it ... I can't help it ... If you could only see
yourself! '
When the master, embarrassed, had buttoned up his hospital pants,
Margarita grew serious.
'Just now you unwittingly spoke the truth,' she said. ' The devil does
know what it was and the devil believe me, will arrange everything! ' Her
eyes suddenly flashed, she jumped up, danced for joy and shouted: ' I'm so
happy, so happy, happy, that I made that bargain with him! Hurrah for the
devil! I'm afraid, my dear, that you're doomed to live with a witch! ' She
flung herself at the master, clasped him round the neck and began kissing
his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Floods of unkempt black hair caressed the
master's neck and shoulders while his face burned with kisses.
'You really are like a witch.'
'I don't deny it,' replied Margarita. ' I'm a witch and I'm very glad
of it.'
'All right,' said the master,' so you're a witch. Fine, splendid.
They've abducted me from the hospital--equally splendid. And they've brought
us back here, let us grant them that too. Let's even assume that neither of
us will be caught . . . But what, in the name of all that's holy, are we
supposed to live on? Tell me that, will you? You seem to care so little
about the problem that it really worries me.'
Just then a pair of blunt-toed boots and the lower part of a pair of
trousers appeared in the little basement window. Then the trousers bent at
the knee and the daylight was shut out by a man's ample bottom.
'Aloysius--are you there, Aloysius? ' asked a voice from slightly
above the trousers.
'It's beginning,' said the master.
'Aloysius? ' asked Margarita, moving closer to the window. ' He was
arrested yesterday. Who wants him? What's your name?'
Instantly the knees and bottom vanished, there came the click of the
gate and everything returned to normal. Again, Margarita collapsed on to the
divan and laughed until tears started from her eyes. When the fit was over
her expression changed completely, she grew serious, slid down from the
divan and crawled over to the master's knees. Staring him in the eyes, she
began to stroke his head.
'How you've suffered, my poor love! I'm the only one who knows how
much you've suffered. Look, there are grey and white threads in your hair
and hard lines round your mouth. My sweetest love, forget everything and
stop worrying. You've had to do too much thinking ; now I'm going to think
for you. I swear to you that everything is going to be perfect! ' ' I'm not
afraid of anything, Margot,' the master suddenly replied, raising his head
and looking just as he had when he had created that world he had never seen
yet knew to be true. ' I'm not afraid, simply because I have been through
everything that a man can go through. I've been so frightened that nothing
frightens me any longer. But I feel sorry for you, Margot, that's the point,
that's why I keep coming back to the same question. Think, Margarita--why
ruin your life for a sick pauper? Go back home. I feel sorry for you, that's
why I say this.'
'Oh, dear, dear, dear,' whispered Margarita, shaking her tousled head,
' you weak, faithless, stupid man! Why do you think I spent the whole of
last night prancing about naked, why do you think I sold my human nature and
became a witch, why do you think I spent months in this dim, damp little
hole thinking of nothing but the storm over Jerusalem, why do you think I
cried my eyes out when you vanished? You know why--yet when happiness
suddenly descends on us and gives us everything, you want to get rid of me!
All right, I'll go. But you're a cruel, cruel man. You've become completely
heartless.'
Bitter tenderness filled the master's heart and without knowing why he
burst into tears as he fondled Margarita's hair. Crying too, she whispered
to him as her fingers caressed his temple :
'There are more than just threads . . . your head is turning white
under my eyes . . . my poor suffering head. Look at your eyes! Empty . . .
And your shoulders, bent with the weight they've borne . . . they've
crippled you . . .' Margarita faded into delirium, sobbing helplessly.
Then the master dried his eyes, raised Margarita from her knees, stood
up himself and said firmly :
'That will do. You've made me utterly ashamed. I'll never mention it
again, I promise. I know that we are both suffering from some mental
sickness which you have probably caught from me . . . Well, we must see it
through together.'
Margarita put her Ups close to the master's ear and whispered :
'I swear by your life, I swear by the astrologer's son you created
that all will be well!'
'All right, I'll believe yon,' answered the master with a smile,
adding : ' Where else can such wrecks as you and I find help except from the
supernatural? So let's see what we can find in the other world.'
'There, now you're like you used to be, you're laughing,' said
Margarita. ' To hell with all your long words! Supernatural or not
supernatural, what do- I care? I'm hungry!' And she dragged the master
towards the table.
'I can't feel quite sure that this food isn't going to disappear
through the floor in a puff of smoke or fly out of the window,' said the
master.
'I promise you it won't.'
At that moment a nasal voice was heard at the window :
'Peace be with you.'
The master was startled but Margarita, accustomed to the unfamiliar,
cried:
It's Azazello! Oh, how nice!' And whispering to the master: ' You
see--they haven't abandoned us!' she ran to open the door.
'You should at least fasten the front of your dress,' the master
shouted after her.
'I don't care,' replied Margarita from the passage.
His blind eye glistening, Azazello came in, bowed and greeted the
master. Margarita cried :
Oh, how glad I am! I've never been so happy in my life! Forgive me,
Azazello, for meeting you naked like this.'
Azazello begged her not to let it worry her, assuring Margarita that he
had not only seen plenty of naked women in his time but even women who had
been skinned alive. First putting down a bundle wrapped in dark cloith, he
took a seat at the table.
Margarita poured Azazello a brandy, which he drank with relish. The
master, without staring at him, gently scratched his left wrist under the
table, but it had no effect. Azazello did not vanish into thin air and there
was no reason why he should. There was nothing terrible about this stocky
little demon with red hair, except perhaps his wall eye, but that afflicts
plenty of quite unmagical people, and except for his slightly unusual dress
--a kind of cassock or cape--but ordinary people sometimes wear clothes like
that too. He drank his brandy like all good men do, a whole glassful at a
time and on an empty stomach. The same brandy was already beginning to make
the master's head buzz and he said to himself:
'No, Margarita's right... of course this creature is an emissary of
the devil. After all only the day before yesterday I was proving to Ivan
that he had met Satan at Patriarch's Ponds, yet now the thought seems to
frighten me and I'm inventing excuses like hypnosis and hallucinations . . .
Hypnotism--hell!'
He studied Azazello's face and was convinced that there was ai certain
constraint in his look, some thought which he was holding back. ' He's not
just here on a visit, he has been sent here for a purpose,' thought the
master.
His powers of observation had not betrayed him. After his third glass
of brandy, which had no apparent effect on him, Azazello said:
'I must say it's comfortable, this little basement of yours, isn't it?
The only question is--what on earth are you going to do with yourselves, now
that you're here? '
'That is just what I have been wondering,' said the masteir with a
smile.
'Why do you make me feel uneasy, Azazello?' asked Margarita.
'Oh, come now!' exclaimed Azazello, ' I wouldn't dream of doing
anything to upset you. Oh yes! I nearly forgot . . . messire sends his
greetings and asks me to invite you to take a little trip with him--if you'd
like to, of course. What do you say to that?'
Margarita gently kicked the master's foot under the table.
'With great pleasure,' replied the master, studying Azazello. who went
on:
'We hope Margarita Nikolayevna won't refuse? '
'Of course not,' said Margarita, again brushing the master's foot with
her own.
'Splendid!' cried Azazello. ' That's what I like to see-- one, two and
away! Not like the other day in the Alexander Gardens!'
'Oh, don't remind me of that, Azazello, I was so stupid then. But you
can't really blame me--one doesn't meet the devil every day!'
'More's the pity,' said Azazello. ' Think what fun it would be if you
did!'
'I love the speed,' said Margarita excitedly, ' I love the speed and I
love being naked . . . just like a bullet from a gun--bang! Ah, how he can
shoot!' cried Margarita turning to the master. ' He can hit any pip of a
card--under a cushion too!' Margarita was beginning to get drunk and her
eyes were sparkling.
'Oh--I nearly torgot something else, too,' exclaimed Azazello,
slapping himself on the forehead. ' What a fool I am! Messire has sent you a
present'--here he spoke to the master--' a bottle of wine. Please note that
it is the same wine that the Procurator of Judaea drank. Falernian.'
This rarity aroused great interest in both Margarita and the master.
Azazello drew a sealed wine jar, completely covered in mildew, out of a
piece of an old winding-sheet. They sniffed the wine, then poured it into
glasses and looked through it towards the window. The light was already
fading with the approach of the storm. Filtered through the glass, the light
turned everything to the colour of blood.
'To Woland! ' exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.
All three put their lips to the glasses and drank a large mouthful.
Immediately the light began to fade before the master's eyes, his breath
came in gasps and he felt the end coming. He could just see Margarita,
deathly pale, helplessly stretch out her arms towards him, drop her head on
to the table and then slide to the floor.
'Poisoner . . .' the master managed to croak. He tried to snatch the
knife from the table to stab Azazello, but his hand slithered lifelessly
from the tablecloth, everything in the basement seemed to turn black and
then vanished altogether. He collapsed sideways, grazing his forehead on the
edge of the bureau as he fell.
When he was certain that the poison had taken effect, Azazello started
to act. First he flew out of the window and in a few moments he was in
Margarita's flat. Precise and efficient as ever, Azazello wanted to check
that everything necessary had been done. It had. Azazello saw a
depressed-looking woman, waiting for her husband to return, come out of her
bedroom and suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart and gasp helplessly :
'Natasha . . . somebody . . . help . . .' She fell to the drawing-room
floor before she had time to reach the study.
'All in order,' said Azazello. A moment later he was back with the
murdered lovers. Margarita lay face downward on the carpet. With his iron
hands Azazello turned her over like a doll and looked at her. The woman's
face changed before his eyes. Even in the twilight of the oncoming storm he
could see how her temporary witch's squint and her look of cruelty and
violence disappeared. Her expression relaxed and softened, her mouth lost
its predatory sneer and simply became the mouth of a woman in her last
agony. Then Azazello forced her white teeth apart and poured into her mouth
a few drops of the same wine that had poisoned her. Margarita sighed, rose
without Azazello's help, sat down and asked weakly :
'Why, Azazello, why? What have you done to me? '
She saw the master lying on the floor, shuddered and whispered:
'I didn't expect this . . . murderer! '
'Don't worry,' replied Azazello. ' He'll get up again in a minute. Why
must you be so nervous! '
He sounded so convincing that Margarita believed him at once. She
jumped up, alive and strong, and helped to give the master some of the wine.
Opening his eyes he gave a stare of grim hatred and repeated his last word :
'Poisoner . . .'
'Oh well, insults are the usual reward for a job well done!' said
Azazello. ' Are you blind? You'll soon see sense.'
The master got up, looked round briskly and asked :
'Now what does all this mean? '
'It means,' replied Azazello, ' that it's time for us to go. The
thunderstorm has already begun--can you hear? It's getting dark. The horses
are pawing the ground and making your little garden shudder. You must say
goodbye, quickly.'
'Ah, I understand,' said the master, gating round, ' you have killed
us. We are dead. How clever--and how timely. Now I see it all.'
'Oh come,' replied Azazello, ' what did I hear you say? Your beloved
calls you the master, you're an intelligent being--how can you be dead? It's
ridiculous . . '
'I understand what you mean,' cried the master, ' don't go on! You're
right--a thousand times right! '
'The great Woland! ' Margarita said to him urgently, ' the great
Woland! His solution was much better than mine! But the novel, the novel!'
she shouted at the master,' take the novel with you, wherever you may be
going! '
'No need,' replied the master,' I can remember it all by heart.'
'But you . . . you won't forget a word? ' asked Margarita, embracing
her lover and wiping the blood from his bruised forehead.
'Don't worry. I shall never forget anything again,' he answered.
'Then the fire! ' cried Azazello. ' The fire--where it all began and
where we shall end it! '
'The fire! ' Margarita cried in a terrible voice. The basement windows
were banging, the blind was blown aside by the wind. There was a short,
cheerful clap of thunder. Azazello thrust his bony hand into the stove,
pulled out a smouldering log and used it to light the tablecloth. Then he