The Master and Margarita

  “Goodbye, Messire,” she said aloud, and thought, “I must just get out of here, and then I’ll go to the river and drown myself.”

  “Sit down now,” Woland suddenly said imperiously.

  Margarita changed countenance and sat down.

  “Perhaps you want to say something before you leave?”

  “No, nothing, Messire,” Margarita answered proudly, “except that if you still need me, I’m willing and ready to do anything you wish. I’m not tired in the least, and I had a very good time at the ball. So that if it were still going on, I would again offer my knee for thousands of gallowsbirds and murderers to kiss.” Margarita looked at Woland as if through a veil, her eyes filling with tears.

  “True! You’re perfectly right!” Woland cried resoundingly and terribly.

  That’s the way!”

  “That’s the way!” Woland’s retinue repeated like an echo.

  “We’ve been testing you,” said Woland. “Never ask for anything! Never for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They’ll make the offer themselves, and give everything themselves. Sit down, proud woman,” Woland tore the heavy dressing-gown from Margarita and again she found herself sitting next to him on the bed. “And so, Margot,” Woland went on, softening his voice, “what do you want for having been my hostess tonight? What do you wish for having spent the ball naked? What price do you put on your knee? What are your losses from my guests, whom you just called gallowsbirds? Speak! And speak now without constraint, for it is I who offer.”

  Margarita’s heart began to pound, she sighed heavily, started pondering something.

  “Well, come, be braver!” Woland encouraged her. “Rouse your fantasy, spur it on! Merely being present at the scene of the murder of that inveterate blackguard of a baron is worth a reward, particularly if the person is a woman. Well, then?”

  Margarita’s breath was taken away, and she was about to utter the cherished words prepared in her soul, when she suddenly turned pale, opened her mouth and stared: “Frieda! ... Frieda, Frieda!” someone’s importunate, imploring voice cried in her ears, “my name is Frieda!” And Margarita, stumbling over the words, began to speak: “So, that means ... I can ask ... for one thing?”

  “Demand, demand, my donna,” Woland replied, smiling knowingly, “you may demand one thing.”

  Ah, how adroitly and distinctly Woland, repeating Margarita’s words, underscored that “one thing”!

  Margarita sighed again and said: “I want them to stop giving Frieda that handkerchief with which she smothered her baby.”

  The cat raised his eyes to heaven and sighed noisily, but said nothing, perhaps remembering how his ear had already suffered.

  “In view of the fact,” said Woland, grinning, “that the possibility of your having been bribed by that fool Frieda is, of course, entirely excluded

  — being incompatible with your royal dignity — I simply don’t know what to do. One thing remains, perhaps: to procure some rags and stuff them in all the cracks of my bedroom.”

  “What are you talking about, Messire?” Margarita was amazed, hearing these indeed incomprehensible words.

  “I agree with you completely, Messire,” the cat mixed into the conversation, “precisely with rags!” And the cat vexedly struck the table with his paw.

  “I am talking about mercy,” Woland explained his words, not taking his fiery eye off Margarita. “It sometimes creeps, quite unexpectedly and perfidiously, through the narrowest cracks. And so I am talking about rags...”

  “And I’m talking about the same thing!” the cat exclaimed, and drew back from Margarita just in case, raising his paws to protect his sharp ears, covered with a pink cream.

  “Get out,” said Woland.

  “I haven’t had coffee yet,” replied the cat, how can I leave? Can it be, Messire, that on a festive night the guests are divided into two sorts?

  One of the first, and the other, as that sad skinflint of a barman put it, of second freshness?”

  “Quiet,” ordered Woland, and, turning to Margarita, he asked: “You are, by all tokens, a person of exceptional kindness? A highly moral person?”

  “No,” Margarita replied emphatically, “I know that one can only speak frankly with you, and so I will tell you frankly: I am a light-minded person. I asked you for Frieda only because I was careless enough to give her firm hope. She’s waiting, Messire, she believes in my power. And if she’s left disappointed, I’ll be in a terrible position. I’ll have no peace in my life. There’s no help for it, it just happened.”

  “Ah,” said Woland, “that’s understandable.”

  “Will you do it?” Margarita asked quietly.

  “By no means,” answered Woland. “The thing is, dear Queen, that a little confusion has taken place here. Each department must look after its own affairs. I don’t deny our possibilities are rather great, they’re much greater than some not very keen people may think...”

  “Yes, a whole lot greater,” the cat, obviously proud of these possibilities, put in, unable to restrain himself.

  “Quiet, devil take you!” Woland said to him, and went on addressing Margarita: “But there is simply no sense in doing what ought to be done by another – as I just put it – department. And so, I will not do it, but you will do it yourself.”

  “And will it be done at my word?”

  Azazello gave Margarita an ironic look out of the comer of his blind eye, shook his red head imperceptibly, and snorted.

  “Just do it, what a pain!” Woland muttered and, turning the globe, began peering into some detail on it, evidently also occupied with something else during his conversation with Margarita.

  “So, Frieda ...” prompted Koroviev.

  “Frieda!” Margarita cried piercingly.

  The door flew open and a dishevelled, naked woman, now showing no signs of drunkenness, ran into the room with frenzied eyes and stretched her arms out to Margarita, who said majestically: “You are forgiven. The handkerchief will no longer be brought to you.”

  Frieda’s scream rang out, she fell face down on the Soor and prostrated in a cross before Margarita. Woland waved his hand and Frieda vanished from sight.

  “Thank you, and farewell,” Margarita said, getting up.

  “Well, Behemoth,” began Woland, “let’s not take advantage of the action of an impractical person on a festive night.” He turned to Margarita: “And so, that does not count, I did nothing. What do you want for yourself?”

  Silence ensued, interrupted by Koroviev, who started whispering in Margarita’s ear: “Diamond donna, this time I advise you to be more reasonable! Or else fortune may slip away.”

  “I want my beloved master to be returned to me right now, this second,” said Margarita, and her face was contorted by a spasm.

  Here a wind burst into the room, so that the flames of the candles in the candelabra were flattened, the heavy curtain on the window moved aside, the window opened wide and revealed far away on high a full, not morning but midnight moon. A greenish kerchief of night light fell from the window-sill to the floor, and in it appeared Ivanushka’s night visitor, who called himself a master. He was in his hospital clothes – robe, slippers and the black cap, with which he never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he glanced sidelong with a crazy amorousness at the lights of the candles, and the torrent of moonlight seethed around him.

  Margarita recognized him at once, gave a moan, clasped her hands, and ran to him. She kissed him on the forehead, on the lips, pressed herself to his stubbly cheek, and her long held-back tears now streamed down her face.

  She uttered only one word, repeating it senselessly: “You ... you ... you ...”

  The master held her away from him and said in a hollow voice: “Don’t weep, Margot, don’t torment me, I’m gravely ill.” He grasped the window-sill with his hand, as if he were about to jump on to it and flee, and, peering at those sitting there, cried: “I’m afraid, Margot! My hallucinations are b
eginning again ...”

  Sobs stifled Margarita, she whispered, choking on the words: “No, no, no ... don’t be afraid of anything ... I’m with you ... I’m with you ...”

  Koroviev deftly and inconspicuously pushed a chair towards the master, and he sank into it, while Margarita threw herself on her knees, pressed herself to the sick man’s side, and so grew quiet. In her agitation she had not noticed that her nakedness was somehow suddenly over, that she was now wearing a black silk cloak. The sick man hung his head and began looking down with gloomy, sick eyes.

  “Yes,” Woland began after a silence, “they did a good job on him.” He ordered Koroviev: “Knight, give this man something to drink.”

  Margarita begged the master in a trembling voice: “Drink, drink! You’re afraid? No, no, believe me, they’ll help you!”

  The sick man took the glass and drank what was in it, but his hand twitched and the lowered glass smashed at his feet.

  “It’s good luck, good luck!” Koroviev whispered to Margarita. “Look, he’s already coming to himself.”

  Indeed, the sick man’s gaze was no longer so wild and troubled.

  “But is it you, Margot?” asked the moonlit guest.

  “Don’t doubt, it’s I,” replied Margarita.

  “More!” ordered Woland.

  After the master emptied the second glass, his eyes became alive and intelligent.

  “Well, there, that’s something else again,” said Woland, narrowing his eyes. “Now let’s talk. Who are you?”

  “I’m nobody now,” the master replied, and a smile twisted his mouth.

  “Where have you just come from?”

  “From the house of sorrows. I am mentally ill,” replied the visitor.

  These words Margarita could not bear, and she began to weep again. Then she wiped her eyes and cried out: Terrible words! Terrible words! He’s a master, Messire, I’m letting you know that! Cure him, he’s worth it!”

  “Do you know with whom you are presently speaking?” Woland asked the visitor. “On whom you have come calling?”

  “I do,” replied the master, “my neighbour in the madhouse was that boy, Ivan Homeless. He told me about you.”

  “Ah, yes, yes,” Woland responded, “I had the pleasure of meeting that young man at the Patriarch’s Ponds. He almost drove me mad myself, proving to me that I don’t exist. But you do believe that it is really I?”

  “I must believe,” said the visitor, “though, of course, it would be much more comforting to consider you the product of a hallucination. Forgive me,” the master added, catching himself.

  “Well, so, if it’s more comforting, consider me that,” Woland replied courteously.

  “No, no!” Margarita said, frightened, shaking the master by the shoulder. “Come to your senses! It’s really he before you!”

  The cat intruded here as well.

  “And I really look like a hallucination. Note my profile in the moonlight.” The cat got into the shaft of moonlight and wanted to add something else, but on being asked to keep silent, replied: ‘very well, very well, I’m prepared to be silent. I’ll be a silent hallucination,” and fell silent.

  “But tell me, why does Margarita call you a master?” asked Woland.

  The man smiled and said: “That is an excusable weakness. She has too high an opinion of a novel I wrote.”

  “What is this novel about?”

  “It is a novel about Pontius Pilate.”

  Here again the tongues of the candles swayed and leaped, the dishes on the table clattered, Woland burst into thunderous laughter, but neither frightened nor surprised anyone. Behemoth applauded for some reason.

  “About what? About what? About whom?” said Woland, ceasing to laugh.

  “And that – now? It’s stupendous! Couldn’t you have found some other subject? Let me see it.” Woland held out his hand, palm up.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot do that,” replied the master, “because I burned it in the stove.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you,” Woland replied, “that cannot be: manuscripts don’t burn.”[138] He turned to Behemoth and said, “Come on. Behemoth, let’s have the novel.”

  The cat instantly jumped off the chair, and everyone saw that he had been sitting on a thick stack of manuscripts. With a bow, the cat gave the top copy to Woland. Margarita trembled and cried out, again shaken to the point of tears: “It’s here, the manuscript! It’s here!” She dashed to Woland and added in admiration: “All-powerful! All-powerful!”

  Woland took the manuscript that had been handed to him, turned it over, laid it aside, and silently, without smiling, stared at the master. But he, for some unknown reason, lapsed into anxiety and uneasiness, got up from the chair, wrung his hands, and, quivering as he addressed the distant moon, began to murmur: “And at night, by moonlight, I have no peace ... Why am I being troubled? Oh, gods, gods ...”

  Margarita clutched at the hospital robe, pressing herself to him, and began to murmur herself in anguish and tears: “Oh, God, why doesn’t the medicine help you?” “It’s nothing, nothing, nothing,” whispered Koroviev, twisting about the master, “nothing, nothing . . . One more little glass, I’ll keep you company...”

  And the little glass winked and gleamed in the moonlight, and this little glass helped. The master was put back in his place, and the sick man’s face assumed a calm expression.

  “Well, it’s all clear now,” said Woland, tapping the manuscript with a long finger.

  “Perfectly clear,” confirmed thfr cat, forgetting his promise to be a silent hallucination. “Now the main line of this opus is thoroughly clear to me. What do you say, Azazello?” he turned to the silent Azazello.

  “I say,” the other twanged, “that it would be a good thing to drown you.”

  “Have mercy, Azazello,” the cat replied to him, “and don’t suggest the idea to my sovereign. Believe me, every night I’d come to you in the same moonlight garb as the poor master, and nod and beckon to you to follow me.

  How would that be, Azazello?”

  “Well, Margarita,” Woland again entered the conversation, “tell me everything you need.”

  Margarita’s eyes lit up, and she said imploringly to Woland: “Allow me to whisper something to him.”

  Woland nodded his head, and Margarita, leaning to the master’s ear, whispered something to him. They heard him answer her.

  “No, it’s too late. I want nothing more in my life, except to see you.

  But again I advise you to leave me, or you’ll perish with me.”

  “No, I won’t leave you,” Margarita answered and turned to Woland: “I ask that we be returned to the basement in the lane off the Arbat, and that the lamp be burning, and that everything be as it was.

  Here the master laughed and, embracing Margarita’s long-since-uncurled head, said: “Ah, don’t listen to the poor woman, Messire! Someone else has long been living in the basement, and generally it never happens that anything goes back to what it used to be.” He put his cheek to his friend’s head, embraced Margarita, and began muttering: “My poor one ... my poor one ...”

  “Never happens, you say?” said Woland. That’s true. But we shall try.”

  And he called out: “Azazello!”

  At once there dropped from the ceiling on to the floor a bewildered and nearly delirious citizen in nothing but his underwear, though with a suitcase in his hand for some reason and wearing a cap. This man trembled with fear and kept cowering.

  “Mogarych?” Azazello asked of the one fallen from the sky.

  “Aloisy Mogarych,”[139] the man answered, shivering.

  “Was it you who, after reading Latunsky’s article about this man’s novel, wrote a denunciation saying that he kept illegal literature?” asked Azazello.

  The newly arrived citizen turned blue and dissolved in tears of repentance.

  “You wanted to move into his rooms?” Azazello twanged as soulfully as he could.

  The hissing of a
n infuriated cat was heard in the room, and Margarita, with a howl of “Know a witch when you see one!”, sank her nails into Aloisy Mogarych’s face.

  A commotion ensued.

  “What are you doing?” the master cried painfully. “Margot, don’t disgrace yourself!”

  “I protest! It’s not a disgrace!” shouted the cat.

  Koroviev pulled Margarita away.

  “I put in a bathroom ...” the bloodied Mogarych cried, his teeth chattering, and, terrified, he began pouring out some balderdash, “the whitewashing alone ... the vitriol...”

  “Well, it’s nice that you put in a bathroom,” Azazello said approvingly, “he needs to take baths.” And he yelled: “Out!”

  Then Mogarych was turned upside down and left Woland’s bedroom through the open window.

  The master goggled his eyes, whispering: “Now that’s maybe even neater than what Ivan described!” Thoroughly struck, he looked around and finally said to the cat: “But, forgive me, was it you ... was it you, sir ...” he faltered, not knowing how to address a cat, “are you that same cat, sir, who got on the tram?”

  “I am,” the flattered cat confirmed and added: “It’s pleasing to hear you address a cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually addressed familiarly, though no cat has ever drunk bruderschaft[140] with anyone.”

  “It seems to me that you’re not so much a cat...” the master replied hesitantly. “Anyway, they’ll find me missing at the hospital,” he added timidly to Woland.

  “Well, how are they going to find you missing?” Koroviev soothed him, and some papers and ledgers turned up in his hands. “By your medical records?”

  “Yes ...”

  Koroviev flung the medical records into the fireplace.

  “No papers, no person,” Koroviev said with satisfaction. “And this is your landlord’s house register?”

  Y-yes ...”

  "Who is registered in it? Aloisy Mogarych?” Koroviev blew on the page of the house register. “Hup, two! He’s not there, and, I beg you to notice, never has been. And if this landlord gets surprised, tell him he dreamed Aloisy up! Mogarych? What Mogarych? There was never any Mogarych!” Here the loose-leafed book evaporated from Koroviev’s hands. “And there it is, already back in the landlord’s desk.”