Although it was Korovyov himself and not Margarita who had brought up the subject of the fifth dimension, she laughed heartily when she heard his story about the apartment wizard. Korovyov continued, "But to business, to business, Margarita Nikolayevna. You are a very intelligent woman and have, naturally, already guessed who our host is."
Margarita's heart skipped a beat and she nodded.
"Well then, well then," said Korovyov. "We abhor mystery and innu-
By Candlelight 215
endo of any kind. Every year Messire gives one ball. It is called the Spring Ball of the Full Moon, or the Ball of a Hundred Kings. A huge crowd attends!..."—Here Korovyov clutched his cheek, as if a tooth had started to ache. "But I hope, youll soon see that for yourself. And so: Messire is a bachelor, as you yourself, of course, understand. But he needs a hostess." Spreading his arms, Korovyov said, "You will agree that without a hostess..."
Margarita listened to Korovyov, trying not to utter a word. She felt a chill beneath her heart, the hope of happiness was making her head spin.
"According to tradition," Korovyov continued, "the hostess of the ball has, first of all, to be named Margarita, and second, she has to be a native of the place where the ball is held. And we, as you can see, are travelling and find ourselves at the present time in Moscow. We found one hundred and twenty-one Margaritas in Moscow, and, would you believe it," here Korovyov slapped himself on the thigh in despair, "not one of them was suitable. And then, at long last, a stroke of luck..."
Korovyov gave an expressive grin, bowing from the waist, and again Margarita felt a chill in her heart
"To be brier cried Korovyov. "As brief as can be: you won't refuse to assume this obligation, will you?"
"No, I won't," was Margarita's firm reply.
"We're finished!" said Korovyov, and picking up the lamp, he added, "Please follow me."
They walked between the columns and finally made their way to another room, which for some reason smelled strongly of lemon, where rustling sounds were heard, and where something brushed against Margarita's head. She shuddered.
"Don't be frightened," soothed Korovyov sweetly, taking Margarita by the arm. "It's only Behemoth showing off his ball tricks, nothing more. And, in general, may I be so bold as to offer you some advice, Margarita Nikolayevna, never ever be afraid of anything. That's unwise. The ball will be lavish, that I won't try to hide from you. We'll see some people who wielded vast power in their day. But, truly, when one thinks how microscopically small their resources are compared with the resources of the one in whose retinue I have the honor to serve, then it becomes ridiculous and, I would even say, pathetic... And besides, you yourself are of royal blood."
"Royal blood?" whispered Margarita fearfully, pressing against Korovyov.
"Ah, Queen," cackled Korovyov playfully, "questions of blood are the most complicated in the world! And if you were to ask certain great-grandmothers, especially those renowned for their meekness, some most astonishing secrets would be revealed, esteemed Margarita Nikolayevna. I would not be remiss if in speaking about this subject, I were to draw an analogy to a capriciously shuffled deck of cards. There
21 6 The Master and Margarita
are things in which neither class distinctions nor national boundaries have any validity whatsoever. I'll give you a hint: a certain sixteenth-century French queen would have been astounded, one must suppose, if someone had told her that many, many years in the future I would be walking arm in arm through a ballroom in Moscow with her charming great-great-great-great-granddaughter. But we have arrived!"
At this point Korovyov blew out his lamp and it disappeared from his hands, and Margarita saw a strip of light on the floor in front of her under a dark door. And Korovyov rapped gently on that door. Here Margarita became so excited that her teeth began to chatter and a shiver ran down her spine.
The door opened. The room turned out to be quite small. Margarita could see a wide oak bed covered with dirty, wrinkled, and crumpled sheets and pillows. In front of the bed stood an oak table with carved legs, on top of which was a candelabrum with sockets shaped like bird claws. Burning in the seven gold claws were thick wax candles. There was also a large chessboard on the table with unusually skillfully crafted chessmen. A low stool stood on a small, threadbare carpet. On still another table there was a gold cup and a second candelabrum whose branches were fashioned like a snake's. The room smelled of sulphur and pitch. The shadows from the candelabra crisscrossed over the floor.
Among those present Margarita immediately recognized Azazello, who was now dressed in tails and standing by the head of the bed. Now that he was all dolled up, Azazello no longer resembled the ruffian in whose identity he had appeared to Margarita in Alexandrovsky Park, and he gave Margarita a particularly gallant bow.
A naked witch, the same Hella who had so embarrassed the respectable bartender at the Variety, and, alas, the same one who, to Rimsky's great good fortune, had been scared off by the rooster on the night of the famous performance, was sitting on the rug by the bed, stirring something in a pan that gave off sulphurous fumes.
In addition to the others there was a huge black cat who was sitting on a tall stool in front of the chess table, holding a knight in his right paw.
Hella got up and bowed to Margarita. The cat did likewise after jumping off its stool. Clicking its right hind paw, it dropped the knight and crawled under the bed to retrieve iL
Dying from terror, Margarita somehow managed to see all this in the deceptive shadows of the candlelight. Her gaze was drawn to the bed, on which sat the one whom poor Ivan, at Patriarch's Ponds, had recently tried to convince of the devil's non-existence. This non-existent being was, in fact, sitting on the bed.
Two eyes bore into Margarita's face. The right eye had a gold spark deep in its center and could pierce anyone's soul to its depths; the left eye was vacant and black, like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to a bottomless well of darkness and shadow. Woland's face was
By Candlelight 217
lopsided, the right corner of his mouth stretched downwards, and his high, balding forehead was etched with deep wrinkles which ran parallel to his sharp eyebrows. An eternal suntan seemed to have been burned into Woland's face.
Woland lay sprawled on the bed, dressed only in a long nightshirt, which was dirty and patched on the left shoulder. One naked leg was folded beneath him and the other was stretched out on the stool. Hella was massaging the knee of this dark leg with a smoking salve.
On Woland's bare, hairless chest Margarita also noted a gold chain with a finely carved scarab of dark stone that had some kind of writing engraved on the back. Next to Woland on the bed, on a heavy base, stood a strange globe that seemed to be alive and was lit up on one side by a sun.
The silence lasted for several seconds. "He's studying me," thought Margarita, making an effort to control the trembling in her legs.
After smiling, which seemed to ignite the sparkle in his eye, Woland at last began to speak, "I welcome you, Queen, and beg you to excuse my at-home attire."
Woland's voice was so low that on certain syllables it drawled out into a wheeze.
He picked up a long sword that was lying on top of the bedclothes, bent down, and poked it under the bed, saying, "Come out of there! The game is over. Our guest has arrived."
"Not on my account," whistled Korovyov anxiously in Margarita's ear, playing the role of prompter.
"Not on my account..." began Margarita.
"Messire..." Korovyov breathed into her ear.
"Don't stop on my account, Messire," said Margarita sofdy but clearly, after regaining control of herself, and smiling, she added, "Please don't interrupt the game on my account I imagine the chess magazines would pay a tidy sum for the chance to print it."
Azazello cackled softly and approvingly, while Woland looked at Margarita attentively, and then remarked, as if to himself, "Yes, Korovyov's right. How capriciously the deck is shuffled! Blood tells!"
He extended his hand and beckoned Margarita to come closer. She did so without feeling the floor beneath her bare feet. Woland placed his hand, heavy as stone, yet, at the same time, hot as fire, on Margarita's shoulder, turned her towards him, and seated her on the bed next to him.
"Well, since you are so enchantingly kind," he said, "and I never expected otherwise, we'll dispense with formalities." Again he leaned over to the edge of the bed and shouted, "How long is this farce under the bed going to continue? Come out of there, accursed Cans!"
"I can't find the knight," replied the cat in an affected and muffled voice from under the bed. "He galloped off somewhere and a frog's turned up instead."
"What do you think this is, a fairground?" asked Woland, pretending
218 The Master and Margarita
to sound angry. There was no frog under the bedl Save those cheap tricks for the Variety. If you don't come out this minute, we'll consider that you've forfeited the game, you damned quitter."
"Not at all, Messire!" howled the cat, and he crawled out that second, holding the knight in his paw.
"I'd like you to meet..." began Woland, and then interrupted himself, "No, I can't stand the sight of this clowning fool. Look what he did to himself under the bed."
In the meantime, the cat, covered in dust and standing on his hind paws, was bowing to Margarita. He had a white bow de around his neck, and a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl opera glasses hanging from a cord on his chest. In addition, the cat's whiskers were gilded.
"Well, what's all this!" exclaimed Woland. "What did you gild your whiskers for? And why the devil do you need a tie, if you're not wearing trousers?"
"Cats aren't supposed to wear trousers, Messire," replied the cat with great dignity. "Will you tell me next that I have to wear boots? It's only in fairy tales that you see a cat in boots, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a tie? It is not my intention to look ridiculous and risk getting kicked outl Everyone adorns himself as best he can. Keep in mind, Messire, that this applies to my opera glasses as well!"
"But whiskers?..."
"I don't understand," retorted the cat dryly, "why Azazello and Korovyov could sprinkle themselves with white powder when shaving today and why is that preferable to gold? All I did was powder my whiskers! It would be a different matter if I had shaved! A shaved cat-now that really would be an abomination, I couldn't agree more. But I can see..."—here the cat's voice trembled with hurt feelings—"that I'm being picked on, and that I'm facing a serious dilemma—should I even go to the ball? What do you say to that, Messire?"
The cat was so puffed up with hurt feelings that it looked like he would burst in a second.
"Oh, what a rogue he is, what a rogue," said Woland, shaking his head, "and every time the game isn't going his way and he's about to lose, he starts putting up smoke screens, like the worst charlatan on the bridge. Sit down this minute and stop talking drivel."
"I'll sit down," said the cat, seating himself, "but I object to what you just said. My remarks are far from being drivel, as you so nicely put it in the lady's presence; rather, they are a series of neatly packaged syllogisms which would win the respect and admiration of such connoisseurs of the genre as Sextus Empiricus, Martianus Capella, or, who knows, even Aristotle himself."
"Checkmate," said Woland.
"Please, please, let me see," rejoined the cat, starting to survey the board with his opera glasses.
By Candlelight 219
"And so," said Woland, addressing himself to Margarita, "I present to you, Donna, my retinue. This fellow who likes to play the fool is the cat Behemoth. You're already acquainted with Azazello and Korovyov, and this is my maid, Hella. She's quick and efficient, and there is no service which she cannot provide."
The beautiful Hella smiled and turned her green-hued eyes to Margarita while continuing to scoop out gobs of salve which she rubbed on Woland's knee.
"Well, that's that," concluded Woland with a grimace, as Hella pressed his knee with particular force. "As you can see, it's a small, diverse, and ingenuous group." He fell silent and began spinning the globe in front of him. It was so artfully constructed that the deep blue oceans on it moved, and its polar cap looked real, snowy and icy.
Meanwhile, the chessboard was in chaos. An utterly distraught king in a white cape stamped on his square, his arms raised in despair. Three white lansquenet pawns with halberds stared in confusion at a bishop who was waving his crozier and pointing ahead to where Woland's black knights could be seen on adjacent black and white squares, mounted on two metdesome steeds, who were pawing the squares with their hooves.
Margarita was fascinated and astounded that the chess pieces were alive.
The cat, lowering his opera glasses, quietly poked his king over in the back. The latter covered his face in despair.
"It doesn't look good, dear Behemoth," said Korovyov with quiet venom.
"The situation is serious, but by no means hopeless," retorted Behemoth. "Moreover, I'm completely confident of ultimate victory. A careful analysis of the situation is all that is required."
He began this careful analysis in rather a strange way, namely, by making faces and winking at his king.
"Nothing will help," observed Korovyov.
"Oh!" shouted Behemoth. "The parrots have flown away, just as I predicted!"
And, in fact, from the distance came the sound of many flapping wings. Korovyov and Azazello rushed out.
"To hell with your ball practical jokes!" muttered Woland, without taking his eyes from his globe.
As soon as Korovyov and Azazello were gone, Behemoth's winking intensified. Finally, the white king caught on to what was expected of him. He abruptly pulled off his cape, threw it down on the square and ran off the board. The bishop donned the king's cast-off attire and took the king's place.
Korovyov and Azazello returned.
"Fake alarm, as always," grumbled Azazello, looking askance at Behemoth.
220 The Master and Margarita
"1 thought I heard something," replied the cat.
"Well, how long is this going to go on?" asked Woland. "Checkmate."
"Perhaps I misheard you, my maître, but my king is not in check, nor could he be."
"I repeat, checkmate."
"Messire," responded the cat in a fake-anxious voice. "You must be overtired; my king is not in check."
"Your king is on square G2," said Woland, without looking at the board.
"Messire, I'm horrified!" wailed the cat, faking a look of horror. "There is no king on that square."
"What are you saying?" asked Woland in disbelief as he looked at the board and saw the bishop on the king's square turn away and cover his face with his hand.
"Oh, you scoundrel," said Woland pensively.
"Messire! I must again appeal to logic," began the cat, pressing his paws to his chest. "If a player says checkmate, and there is no trace of the king on the board, then the checkmate is null and void."
"Do you concede or not?" shouted Woland in a terrible voice.
"Let me think for a bit," answered the cat meekly. He then put his elbows on the table, covered his ears with his paws, and began to think. He thought for a long time and finally said, "I concede."
"Kill the stubborn beast," whispered Azazello.
"Yes, I concede," said the cat, "but only because I can't play when I'm being badgered by envious bystanders!" He got up and the chessmen clambered into the box.
"Hella," said Woland, "it's time," and she disappeared from the room. "My leg has flared up again, and now there's this ball..." continued Woland.
"Allow me," said Margarita softly.
Woland stared at her intently and then moved his knee over to her.
The salve was as hot as lava and burned Margarita's hands, but she did not flinch and rubbed it into his knee, trying not to cause him any pain.
"My close friends insist that it's rheumatism," said Woland, keeping his eyes fixed on Margarita, "but I strongly suspect that the pain in my knee is a memento of my intimacy with a certain enchanting witch, whom I met in the Brocken Mountains, on the Devil's Pulpit, in 1571."
"Oh, how can that be!" said Margarita.
"It's nothing! It'll pass in three hundred years' time. A multitude of medications have been recommended to me, but I'm a traditionalist and remain partial to granny's remedies. My grandmother, the vile old hag, left me some incredible herbs! Is there perhaps some sadness or anguish that is poisoning your soul?"
"No, Messire, there's nothing like that," was Margarita's shrewd reply, "and now that I'm here with you, I feel completely fine."
BjCandWfeHt 111
"Blood is what counts," said Woland merrily to no one in particular, and added, "I see my globe interests you."
"Oh yes, I've never seen anything like it."
"Yes, it is nice. To be frank, I don't like listening to the news on the radio. The announcers are usually young women who can't pronounce place names properly. And, what's more, at least a third of them seem to have speech defects, as if that were a job requirement. My globe is much more convenient, especially since I have to know exactly what's going on. For instance, look here. Do you see that piece of land washed on one side by the ocean? Look how it's bursting into flame. A war has broken out there. If you look closer, you'll see it in detail."
Margarita bent toward the globe and saw that a square of earth had grown wider, had assumed vivid colors and had turned into a kind of relief map. And then she saw a strip of river and next to it a village. A house the size of a pea got as big as a matchbox. Suddenly and noiselessly the roof of the house blew off into the air with a puff of black smoke, the walls of the house caved in, so that nothing was left of the two-storey matchbox except piles of rubble spewing black smoke. When she looked even closer, Margariu could see a tiny female figure lying on the ground, and next to her was a baby, lying in a pool of blood with its arms stretched out
"So that's that," said Woland, smiling. "He had no time to sin. Abaddon's work is flawless."
"I wouldn't want to be on the side fighting against this Abaddon," said Margarita. "Whose side is he on?"
"The more I talk with you," Woland replied pleasantly, "the more convinced I am that you're very intelligent Let me put your mind at ease. He is totally neutral and sympathizes equally with both contending sides. As a result, the outcome is always the same for both of them. AbaddonI" called Woland in a soft voice, and out of the wall appeared a thin figure in dark glasses. The glasses made such a strong impression on Margarita that she let out a soft scream and buried her face in Woland's leg. "Stop that!" yelled Woland. "How nervous people are nowadays!" He slapped Margarita's back so hard that her whole body reverberated with the sound. "Can't you see he's got his glasses on? Moreover, he never has appeared, nor will he ever appear, before anyone's time has come. And, besides, I'm here. You're my guest! I just wanted to show him to you."
Abaddon stood motionless.
"Do you think he could take off his glasses for just a second?" asked Margarita, pressing close to Woland and trembling, but only out of curiosity.
"No, that is impossible," Woland replied in a grave voice, waving his arm at Abaddon, who then disappeared. "What do you wish to say, Azazello?"
222 The Master and Margarita
"Messire," answered Azazello, "permit me to speak. Two outsiders have appeared: a beautiful woman who keeps whimpering and begs permission to stay with her mistress, and also her, pardon my expression, hog."
"Beautiful women have strange ways," remarked Woland.
"It's Natasha, Natasha!" exclaimed Margarita.
"Well, let her stay with her mistress. And send the hog—to the cooks!"
"To be butchered?" cried Margarita in fright. "Have mercy, Messire. That's Nikolai Ivanovich, our downstairs neighbor. You see, there's been a mistake here, she rubbed him with that cream..."
"Just a minute," said Woland, "who the hell is going to butcher him and what the devil for? Just let him sit with the cooks for awhile, that's all! You'll agree, I can't very well let him into the ballroom!"
"Well, yes..." added Azazello, and announced, "Midnight is approaching, Messire."
"Ah, good." Woland turned to Margarita, "And so, please come with me... I thank you in advance. Don't get flustered and don't be afraid of anything. Drink nothing but water, or else you'll wilt and it will be hard for you. Time to go!"
Margarita got up from the rug, and then Korovyov appeared in the doorway.
XXIII
Satan's Grand Ball
M |
idnight was approaching, they had to hurry. Margarita had only a vague idea of her surroundings. She recalled candles and a pool inlaid with semiprecious stones. Margarita stood on the bottom of the pool while Hella, helped by Natasha, covered her with a hot, thick, red liquid. Margarita tasted salt on her lips and realized she was being washed with blood. The mande of blood was followed by another—thick, transparent, and pink— and Margarita's head spun from the oil of roses. Next she was laid on a bed of crystal and rubbed with large green leaves until she sparkled. At this point the cat burst in and began to help. He squatted at her feet and started polishing the soles of her feet, as if he were a shoeshine boy polishing shoes on the street
Margarita cannot remember who sewed her pale rose-petal slippers, or how they got fastened with gold clasps all on their own. Some force lifted Margarita up and stood her in front of a mirror, where she saw a regal diamond tiara sparkling on her head. Korovyov appeared from somewhere and hung on Margarita's breast a heavy, oval-framed picture of a poodle on a heavy chain. This adornment was a great burden to the queen. The chain immediately began chafing her neck, and the weight of the picture caused her to bend forward. But Margarita was rewarded for the discomfort caused by the black poodle and chain. Her reward was the new deference shown her by Korovyov and Behemoth. "Never mind, never mind, never mind!" mumbled Korovyov in the doorway of the room with the pool. "There's nothing you can do, you just have to wear it, you have to, you have to... Allow me, Your Majesty, to give you one last bit of advice. The guests will be a diverse lot—oh, very diverse—but, Queen Margot, whatever you do, don't show any partiality! Even if you take a dislike to someone... I know that you, of course, will not show this on your face... No, no, don't even think of it! He'll notice it, he'll notice it right away! You have to like him, you have to like him, Your Majesty! The hostess of the ball will be rewarded for
224 The Master and Margarita
that a hundred times over. And another thing: don't ignore anyone! Give a litde smile if you don't have time for a word. Even the tiniest nod of your head will do. Anything you wish, but not indifference. That causes them to wither..."
Accompanied by Korovyov and Behemoth, Margarita stepped out of the room with the pool into total darkness.
"I'll do it, I'll do it," whispered the cat. "I'll give the signal!"
"Do it!" Korovyov replied in the darkness.
"Let the ball begin!" yelled the cat shrilly, and Margarita at once let out a scream and shut her eyes for several seconds. The ball descended upon her immediately as light combined with sound and smell. Carried along on Korovyov's arm, Margarita found herself in a tropical forest. Red-breasted, green-tailed parrots clung to liana vines, hopping all about, and shouting deafeningly, "Delighted to see you!" But the forest came to an abrupt end, and its bathhouse humidity was replaced by the coolness of a ballroom with columns made of a sparkling, yellowish stone. The ballroom, like the forest, was completely empty, except for naked negroes in silver headbands, standing motionlessly by the columns. Their faces flushed dark-red with excitement when Margarita flew in with her retinue, which now included Azazello, who had materialized from somewhere. Here Korovyov let go of Margarita's arm and whispered, "Go straight to the tulips!"
A low wall of white tulips rose up in front of Margarita, and beyond it she saw countless shaded lamps and in front of them the white chests and black shoulders of men in formal dress. Then Margarita realized where the ball music was coming from. A blast of trumpets crashed down on her, and from beneath it a surge of violins broke loose and washed over her body like blood. An orchestra of some one hundred and fifty men was playing a polonaise.
The man in tails on the podium, towering above the orchestra, took one look at Margarita, turned pale, smiled, and with a sudden wave of his hand made the orchestra rise to its feet. Without ceasing to play for an instant, the orchestra, now standing, immersed Margarita in sound. The man towering above the orchestra turned his back to it and bowed low, his arms spread wide, and Margarita, smiling, waved at him.
"No, not enough, not enough," whispered Korovyov, "he won't sleep all night. Shout to him, 'I salute you, Waltz King!'"
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