The Master and Margarita 32 страница

"Well, fine, One," answered the Master, adding with a laugh, "Of course, when people have been stripped of everything, as you and I have been, they look to otherworldly powers for salvation! Well, all right, I'm willing to do that."

"That's it, now you're your old self again, you're laughing," replied Margarita. "To the devil with your learned words. Otherworldly or not otherworldly—isn't it all the same? I'm hungry."

And she took the Master's hand and pulled him over to the table.

"I'm not convinced that the food won't fall through the floor or fly out the window," said the Master, who was now completely calm.

"It won't fly away!"

And at that moment a nasal voice was heard at the window, "Peace be unto you."

The Master shuddered, but Margarita, already accustomed to the unusual, cried out, "That must be Azazello! Oh, how nice this is, how good!" and she whispered to the Master, "You see, you see, they haven't forsaken us!" She hurried to open the door.

"Pull your cape around you," the Master called after her.

"I don't give a damn about that," replied Margarita, already out in the little hallway.

And then Azazello was bowing and greeting the Master, his walleye beaming at him, and Margarita exclaimed, "Oh, how happy I am! I've never been so happy in my life! But please excuse my nakedness, Azazello!"

Azazello told her not to worry, assuring her that he had seen not only naked women, but women who had been completely skinned, and he took a seat at the table after first placing a bundle wrapped in dark brocade in the corner by the stove.

Margarita poured Azazello some cognac, and he drank it gladly. Not taking his eyes off him, the Master would now and then quietly pinch his left wrist under the table. But the pinching did not help. Azazello did not evaporate into thin air, and, to tell the truth, there was no reason for him to do so. There was nothing terrifying about this short, red-haired man, except perhaps for his walleye, but such things can occur even without sorcery—or except perhaps for his not quite normal clothes—some kind of cassock or cloak—but then again, if one thinks about it seriously, there are people who dress like that. And he drank his cognac as all good men do, that is, downing each glass in one swallow, without eating anything. That same cognac made the Master's head buzz, and he began thinking, "No, Margarita's right! Of course this fellow in front of me is an emissary of the devil. After all, wasn't I just trying to prove to Ivan, two nights ago, that it was Satan whom he had met at Patriarch's Ponds. But now, for some reason, the thought

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frightens me and I start babbling about hypnotists and hallucinations. What the devil kind of hypnotists are these!"

He began examining Azazello closely and became convinced that some constraint showed in his eyes, some idea which he had not as yet proposed to them. "He's not here just to pay a visit, he's here on some mission," thought the Master.

His powers of observation had not betrayed him.

After downing a third glass of cognac, which seemed to have no effect on Azazello whatsoever, the visitor began as follows, "A devilishly comfy little basementl I have only one question. What are you going to do in this little basement?"

"That's precisely what I was saying," replied the Master, laughing.

"Why are you upsetting me, Azazello?" asked Margarita. "We'll manage somehow!"

"Please, please," cried Azazello, "I never meant to upset you. I even agree with you—you'll manage somehow. Oh yes! I almost forgot... Messire sends his greetings. He also asked that I invite you to go on a little outing with him, if, of course, you wish to. So, what do you say to that?"

Margarita nudged the Master with her foot under the table.

"I accept with pleasure," replied the Master, studying Azazello, while the latter continued, "We hope Margarita Nikolayevna won't refuse our invitation?"

"Of course I won't," said Margarita, again nudging the Master's foot with her own.

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Azazello. "That's what I like! One, two, and we're off! Not like that time in Alexandrovsky Park."

"Oh, don't remind me, Azazello! I was stupid then. But I shouldn't be blamed too severely—after all, it's not everyday you meet up with an evil power!"

"That's for sure!" confirmed Azazello. "How nice it would be if it were everyday!"

"It's the speed I like," said Margarita excitedly, "the speed and the nakedness. Like a shot from a Mauser—bang! Ah, what a shot he is!" cried Margarita, turning to the Master. "He can hit a seven card underneath a pillow and on any of its markings!" Margarita was starting to get drunk, which made her eyes flash.

"And again I forgot something," said Azazello loudly, slapping himself on the forehead, "I must be overtired! Messire sent you a gift," here he turned to the Master, "a bottle of wine. Please note that it's the same wine the procurator of Judca was drinking. Falernum."

Naturally, such a rarity provoked the Master's and Margarita's interest. Azazello took a moldy jug out of a piece of dark, funeral brocade. They sniffed the wine, poured it into glasses, and looked through it at the light in the window, which was fading in the approaching storm.

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They saw how everything was stained the color of blood.

To Woland's health!" exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.

All three touched their lips to their glasses and took a long drink. The pre-storm light began to fade in the Master's eyes, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt the end approaching. He saw Margarita, now mortally pale, helplessly stretch out her hands to him, drop her head on the table, and then slide to the floor.

"Poisoner..." the Master managed to shout He wanted to grab a knife from the table to stab Azazello, but his hand slid helplessly off the tablecloth. Everything around him in the basement turned black, and then vanished completely. He fell backwards, and as he did, cut his temple on the corner of the desk.

When the two who had been poisoned were still, Azazello went into action. The first thing he did was dash to the window and seconds later he was in the house where Margarita Nikolayevna had lived. Always careful and precise, Azazello wanted to make sure that everything that was necessary had been done. Everything was completely in order. He saw a morose woman, who was waiting for her husband to come home, walk out of her bedroom, suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart and cry out helplessly, "Natasha! Someone... help met" She fell on the living-room floor, without reaching the study.

"Everything's in order," said Azazello. A minute later he was back with the prostrate lovers. Margarita lay with her face buried in the carpet. With his iron grip, Azazello turned her over like a doll, so that she was facing him, and scrutinized her. The face of the poisoned woman changed before his eyes. Even in the dusk of the gathering storm he could see the temporary witch's squint and the cruelty and wildness of her features disappear. The dead woman's face brightened and, finally, softened, and her smile was no longer predatory, but more that of a woman who had gone through a lot of suffering. Then Azazello pried open her white teeth and poured a few drops into her mouth of the same wine he had used to poison her. Margarita sighed, started to raise herself without Azazello's help, sat up, and asked in a weak voice, "Why, Azazello, why? What have you done to me?"

She saw the Master lying there, shuddered, and whispered, "I didn't expect this... murderer!"

"No, no, you've got it all wrong," replied Azazello, "He'll get up in a minute. Ah, why are you so nervous!"

The red-haired demon sounded so convincing that Margarita believed him right away. She jumped up, strong and alive, and helped give the prostrate Master a drink of the wine. Opening his eyes, the latter gave a glowering look and with hatred in his voice repeated his last word, "Poisoner..."

"Ah, well! Insults are the usual reward for good work," replied Azazello. "Are you blind? If so, recover your sight quickly."

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The Master lifted himself up, looked around with bright, keen eyes and asked, "What does this new scenario mean?"

"It means," replied Azazello, "that it's time for us to go. Can't you hear the thunder? It's getting dark. The horses are pawing the ground, your little garden is trembling. Say good-bye to your basement, and do it quickly."

"Ah, I see," said the Master, looking around, "You killed us, we're dead. How clever of you! How timely] Now I understand everything."

"Oh, please," replied Azazello, "is that you I'm hearing? After all, your beloved calls you the Master, you are thinking at this moment, how can you be dead? Do you have to be sitting in a basement in a shirt and hospital long Johns to think you're alive? That's absurd!"

"I understand what you've said," cried the Master, "Don't say any more! You're a thousand times right!"

"Great Woland!" seconded Margarita, "Great Woland! His idea was a lot better than mine. But the novel, the novel," she shouted to the Master," take the novel with you wherever you're flying."

"I don't have to," replied the Master, "I remember it by heart."

"But you won't forget a word of it, not a single word?" asked Margarita, pressing herself to her lover and wiping the blood away from the cut on his temple.

"Don't worry! Now I shall never forget anything," he replied.

"Then it's time for the fire!" cried Azazello, "Fire with which everything began and with which we are ending everything."

"Fire!" shouted Margarita in a terrifying voice. The basement window banged, the wind blew the blind aside. A short burst of thunder clapped merrily in the sky. Azazello thrust his clawed hand into the stove, pulled out a smoking log and set fire to the tablecloth. Then he set fire to a bundle of old newspapers on the couch, and then to the manuscript and the curtain on the window.

The Master, already intoxicated by the thought of the coming ride, threw a book from the shelf onto the table and ruffled its pages in the burning tablecloth. It went up in merry flames.

"Burn, burn, former life!"

"Burn, suffering!" cried Margarita.

The room was already shimmering in crimson columns, and the three of them ran out through the door along with the smoke, up the stone stairs, and out into the yard. The first thing they saw was the landlord's cook sitting on the ground; scattered around her were potatoes and several bunches of onions. The cook's condition was understandable. Three black horses were snorting by the shed, quivering, and kicking up fountains of dirt. Margarita was the first to mount, then Azazello, and the Master last. The cook let out a groan and was about to lift her hand to make the sign of the cross, but Azazello shouted threateningly from the saddle, "I'll cut your hand off!" He whistled, and the

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horses soared upwards, smashing the linden branches, and dove into a black, low-hanging cloud. Just then smoke began pouring out of the tiny basement window. From below came the faint, pathetic cry of the cook, "We're on fire!"

The horses were already flying over the roofs of Moscow.

"I want to say good-bye to the city," shouted the Master to Azazello, who was riding in front. Thunder swallowed up the end of the Master's sentence. Azazello nodded and urged his horse into a gallop. A cloud was coming straight toward the riders, but still without a sprinkle of rain.

They flew over the boulevard, looked down and saw tiny figures running all over the place, seeking shelter from the rain. The first drops began to fall. They flew over the smoke, which was all that was left of Griboyedov. They flew over the city being flooded by darkness. Lightning flashed above them. Then the rooftops gave way to greenery. Only then did the rain gush down and transform them into three huge bubbles in the deluge.

Margarita was already used to the sensation of flight, but the Master was not, and he was amazed at how quickly they reached their destination, where the man was whom he wanted to say good-bye to because he had no one else. Through the veil of rain he immediately recognized Stravinsky's clinic, the river, and the wood on the opposite shore that he had come to know so thoroughly. They landed in a grove in the meadow not far from the clinic.

"I'll wait for you here," shouted Azazello through cupped hands, now lit up by flashes of lightning, now submerged in a shroud of gray. "Say good-bye, but do it quickly!"

The Master and Margarita jumped down from their saddles and flew across the clinic garden, flickering like watery shadows. A moment later, the Master's practiced hand was moving aside the balcony grille of Room 117. Margarita was right behind him. They entered Ivanushka's room, invisible and unnoticed, while the storm was crashing and howling. The Master stopped by the bed.

Ivanushka lay motionless, just as he had the first time he watched a thunderstorm from this haven of rest. But he was not crying now as he had been then. After looking carefully at the dark silhouette that had entered his room from the balcony, he raised himself up, stretched his arms out and said joyfully, "Ah, it's you! I've been waiting and waiting for you. And now here you are, my neighbor."

To this the Master replied, "I am here! But unfortunately, I cannot be your neighbor anymore. I am flying away forever and I have only come to say good-bye."

"I knew that, I guessed it," replied Ivan softly and asked, "Did you meet him?"

"Yes," said the Master, "I came to say good-bye to you because you are the only person I've talked to recently."

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Ivanushka brightened and said, "It's good that you stopped by. I'll keep my word, you know, I won't write any more silly poems. Something else interests me now," Ivanushka smiled and stared with crazed eyes into the distance, past the Master. "I want to write something else. While I've been lying here, you know, I've come to understand a great deal."

These words excited the Master, and he sat down on the edge of Ivanushka's bed and began speaking, "That's good, that's good. You'll write the sequel about himl"

Ivanushka's eyes flashed.

"But won't you be writing that yourself?" Here he lowered his head and added thoughtfully, "Ah, yes, of course, why am I asking such things." Ivanushka gazed down at the floor, looking frightened.

"No," said the Master, and his voice sounded unfamiliar and hollow, "I won't be writing about him anymore. I'll be busy with something else."

A distant whistle pierced through the sound of the storm.

"Do you hear that?" asked the Master.

"The noise of the storm..."

"No, they're calling me, it's time for me to go," explained the Master and got up from the bed.

"Wait! One more word," begged Ivan, "Did you find her? Had she been faithful?"

"She's right here," replied the Master and pointed to the wall. A dark Margarita detached herself from the white wall and came over to the bed. She looked at the young man lying there, and sorrow showed in her eyes.

"My poor, poor dear," whispered Margarita almost soundlessly, and she bent over the bed.

"What a beautiful woman," said Ivan without envy, but with sadness and a kind of quiet tenderness, "You see, everything worked out well for you. But it didn't for me." Here he thought for a minute and added pensively, "But maybe it has..."

"Yes, yes," whispered Margarita, bending down to him, "I'm going to kiss you on the forehead, and everything will work out as it should... take my word for it, I've seen everything already, I know everything."

The young man put his arms around her neck and she kissed him.

"Farewell, disciple," said the Master barely audibly and began melting into the air. He vanished, and Margarita vanished with him. The balcony grille closed.

Ivanushka became resdess. He sat up in bed, looked around anxiously, even groaned, began talking to himself, and then got up. The thunderstorm was raging with increasing fury, and, apparently, had agitated his soul. It also upset him that his ears, accustomed now to perpetual silence, caught the sounds of anxious footsteps and muffled voices coming from outside his door. In a nervous state, he called out, trembling, "Praskovya Fyodorovna!"

As she came into his room, Praskovya Fyodorovna gave Ivanushka

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an anxious and inquiring glance.

"What is it? What's the matter?* she asked. "Is the storm upsetting you? Well, never you mind, never you mind... We'll make you feel better right away. I'll call for the doctor."

"No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, you don't have to call for the doctor," said Ivanushka, looking restlessly not at Praskovya Fyodorovna, but at the wall. "There's nothing particularly the matter. I understand everything now, don't be afraid. But won't you tell me," asked Ivan with feeling, "what just happened next door, in Room 118?"

"In 118?" repeated Praskovya Fyodorovna, and her eyes began darting all around. "Why, nothing happened there." But her voice sounded fake. Ivanushka noticed that immediately and said, "Oh, Praskovya Fyodorovna! You're such a truthful person... Do you think I'm going to fly into a rage? No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that won't happen. Why don't you just tell me. I can sense what's going on through the wall anyway."

"Your neighbor just died," whispered Praskovya Fyodorovna, unable to overcome her innate truthfulness and goodness, and clothed in the brilliance of the lightning, she looked in fear at Ivanushka. But nothing terrible happened to Ivanushka. He simply raised his finger meaningfully and said, "I knew it! I can assure you, Praskovya Fyodorovna, someone else just died in the city. I even know who." Here Ivanushka smiled mysteriously. "It was a woman."

XXXI

On Sparrow Hills

T

HE thunderstorm had passed without leaving a trace, and a multicolored rainbow had formed an arch over the entire city and was drinking water from the Moscow River. High on a hill between two groves of trees three dark silhouettes could be seen. Woland, Korovyov, and Behemoth sat mounted on black horses, gazing at the city that stretched out on the other side of the river, at the fragmented sun gleaming in the thousands of windows facing westward, toward the gingerbread towers of Novodevichy Convent.

There was a rustle in the air, and Azazello, along with the Master and Margarita who were flying behind him in the black tail of his cloak, landed next to the waiting group.

"We were forced to upset you a little, Margarita Nikolayevna and Master," began Woland after a brief pause, "but please don't hold a grudge. I don't think you'll have any cause for regret. Well, then," he said addressing the Master alone, "say good-bye to the city. It's time for us to go." Woland pointed a black-gloved hand toward the other side of the river where countless suns were smelting the glass, and where the sky over these suns was thick with mist, smoke, and the steam from the city left incandescent by the day's heat.

The Master dismounted quickly, detached himself from the group, and ran over to the precipice of the hill. His black cloak trailed behind him on the ground. The Master began to look at the city. In the first few seconds an aching sadness wrenched his heart, but it soon gave way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of gypsy wanderlust.

"Forever! That must be fully comprehended," whispered the Master, and he licked his dry, cracked lips. He began to listen carefully and pay close attention to everything that was happening in his soul. His excitement, it seemed to him, had turned into a feeling of deep and deadly resentment. But it was short-lived, it passed, and gave way for some reason to a feeling of proud indifference, which, in turn, became a presentiment of permanent peace.

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The group of riders waited for the Master in silence. The group of riders watched the gesticulations of the long, black figure at the edge of the precipice, who at times raised his head as if trying to encompass the whole city with his gaze and peer beyond its boundaries, and at others dropped his head as if studying the stunted, trampled grass beneath his feet.

The silence was broken by Behemoth who had become bored.

"May I have permission, maître, " he said, "to give a whistle of farewell before we ride off?"

"You might frighten the lady," replied Woland, "and, besides, don't forget that today's disgraceful antics are over now."

"Oh, no, no, Messire," said Margarita, sitting in the saddle like an Amazon, her hand on her hip, her pointed train reaching down to the ground, "Give him permission to whistle. Thinking about the long road ahead makes me sad. That's natural, isn't it, Messire, even when you know that happiness awaits you at the end of the road? Let him make us laugh, or else I'm afraid this will all end in tears, and everything will be spoiled before we set out on the road!"

Woland nodded to Behemoth, who got very animated, jumped off his horse, put his fingers in his mouth, puffed out his cheeks, and whistled. Margarita's ears began ringing. Her horse reared up, dry branches broke off in the grove, flocks of ravens and sparrows flew up into the sky, a column of dust spiraled towards the river, and several of the passengers on a riverboat that was going past the landing below had their caps blown off into the water.

The whistle made the Master shudder, however, he did not turn around, but began gesticulating even more wildly, raising his fist skyward as if he were threatening the city. Behemoth looked around proudly.

"That was a real whistle, I won't argue," remarked Korovyov condescendingly, "a real whistle, but, objectively speaking, it was pretty mediocre!"

"Well, but I'm not a choirmaster," replied Behemoth with dignity, puffing himself up, and unexpectedly giving Margarita a wink.

"Let me give it a try, if 1 can remember how," said Korovyov, rubbing his hands and blowing on his fingers.

"But just be careful," said Woland sternly from astride his horse. "No broken limbs!"

"Believe me, Messire," rejoined Korovyov, his hand pressed to his heart, "it's just for fun, I assure you..." Whereupon he stretched as if he were made of rubber, twirled the fingers of his right hand in an ingenious way, twisted himself up like a corkscrew, and then, after suddenly unwinding, let out a whistle.

Margarita did not hear the whistle, but she saw its effects when she and her fiery steed were thrown more than twenty yards to the side. An oak tree next to her was torn up by the roots, and fissures spread over the

320 The Master and Margarita

ground to the river. A huge chunk of riverbank, together with the landing and the restaurant, was uprooted into the river. The water bubbled and heaved, and an entire riverboat was thrown up on the green, low-lying opposite shore, the passengers completely unharmed. A jackdaw killed by Fagot's whistle landed at the feet of Margarita's neighing horse.

This whistle scared the Master away. He grabbed his head and ran back to join his waiting companions.

"Well, then," said Woland, addressing him from atop his horse, "are all your accounts setded? Have you completed your farewell?"

"Yes, I have," replied the Master, and having regained his composure, he looked boldly and squarely into Woland's face.

And then the terrifying voice of Woland boomed over the hills like a trumpet call, "Time to go!" followed by the sharp whistle and laughter of Behemoth.

The horses set off, and the riders soared upwards, breaking into a gallop. Margarita could feel her frenzied horse chomping and straining at the bit. Woland's cloak billowed out over the heads of the entire cavalcade and began filling the vault of the evening sky. When the black covering moved aside for just an instant, Margarita, still galloping, looked back over her shoulder and saw that everything behind them was gone, not only the multicolored towers with the airplane whirring overhead, but the city itself, which had vanished into the ground and left only mist in its wake.

XXXII

Absolution and Eternal Refuge

G

ODS, my gods! How sad the earth is at eventide! How mysterious are the mists over the swamps. Anyone who has wandered in these mists, who has suffered a great deal before death, or flown above the earth, bearing a burden beyond his strength knows this. Someone who is exhausted knows this. And without regret he forsakes the mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, and sinks into the arms of death with a light heart, knowing that death alone...

Even the magical black horses had tired and were carrying their riders slowly, and the inevitable night was beginning to catch up with them. Sensing the night at his back, even the irrepressible Behemoth had fallen silent and was flying along, serious and silent, his claws dug into his saddle, his tail fluffed out behind him.

Night began covering the forests and meadows with its black kerchief. The night ignited sad little lights somewhere far below, alien lights that were no longer of any interest or use either to Margarita or the Master. Night overtook the cavalcade, spreading over them from above and scattering white specks of stars here and there in the saddened sky.

Night was thickening, flying alongside the riders, grabbing at their cloaks and pulling them off, unmasking all illusions. And whenever Margarita, buffeted by the cool breeze, opened her eyes, she saw the changes that were taking place in the appearances of all who were flying to their destination. And when the crimson full moon rose up to meet them from behind the edge of the forest, all illusions vanished and the magical, mutable clothing fell into the swamp and drowned in the mist

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