Madame Petrakov, burning with curiosity, also put her ear to Boba’s plump, greasy lips. And he, with an occasional furtive look around, went on whispering and whispering, and one could make out separate words, such as: “I swear to you! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya!...” Boba lowered his voice still more, “bullets have no effect! ... bullets ... bullets ... benzene ... fire ... bullets ...”
“It’s the liars that spread these vile rumours,” Madame Petrakov boomed in a contralto voice, somewhat louder in her indignation than Boba would have liked, “they’re the ones who ought to be explained! Well, never mind, that’s how it will be, they’ll be called to order! Such pernicious lies!”
“Why lies, Antonida Porfirievna!” exclaimed Boba, upset by the disbelief of the writer’s wife, and again began spinning: “I tell you, bullets have no effect! ... And then the fire ... they went up in the air...in the air!” Boba went on hissing, not suspecting that those he was talking about were sitting next to him, delighting in his yarn.
However, this delight soon ceased: from an inner passage of the restaurant three men, their waists drawn in tightly by belts, wearing leggings and holding revolvers in their hands, strode precipitously on to the veranda. The one in front cried ringingly and terribly: “Don’t move!” And at once all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming at the heads of Koroviev and Behemoth. The two objects of the shooting instantly melted into air, and a pillar of fire spurted from the primus directly on to the tent roof. It was as if a gaping maw with black edges appeared in the tent and began spreading in all directions. The fire leaping through it rose up to the roof of Griboedov House. Folders full of papers lying on the window-sill of the editorial office on the second floor suddenly blazed up, followed by the curtains, and now the fire, howling as if someone were blowing on it, went on in pillars to the interior of the aunt’s house.
A few seconds later, down the asphalt paths leading to the cast-iron fence on the boulevard, whence Ivanushka, the first herald of the disaster, understood by no one, had come on Wednesday evening, various writers, Sofya Pavlovna, Boba, Petrakov’s wife and Petrakov, now went running, leaving their dinners unfinished.
Having stepped out through a side entrance beforehand, not fleeing or hurrying anywhere, like a captain who must be the last to leave his burning brig, Archibald Archibaldovich stood calmly in his summer coat with silk lining, the two balyk logs under his arm.
Chapter 29. The Fate of the Master and Margarita is Decided
At sunset, high over the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beautiful houses in Moscow, a house built about a hundred and fifty years ago, there were two: Woland and Azazello. They could not be seen from the street below, because they were hidden from unwanted eyes by a balustrade with plaster vases and plaster flowers. But they could see the city almost to its very edges.
Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane.
His long and broad sword was stuck vertically into a crack between two flags of the terrace so as to make a sundial. The shadow of the sword lengthened slowly and steadily, creeping towards the black shoes on Satan’s feet.
Resting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched on the stool with one leg drawn under him, Woland stared fixedly[171] at the endless collection of palaces, gigantic buildings and little hovels destined to be pulled down.
Azazello, having parted with his modern attire — that is, jacket, bowler hat and patent-leather shoes — and dressed, like Woland, in black, stood motionless not far from his sovereign, like him with his eyes fixed on the city.
Woland began to speak: “Such an interesting city, is it not?”
Azazello stirred and replied respectfully: “I like Rome better, Messire.”
“Yes, it’s a matter of taste,” replied Woland.
After a while, his voice resounded again: “And what is that smoke there on the boulevard?”
That is Griboedov’s burning,” replied Azazello.
“It must be supposed that that inseparable pair, Koroviev and Behemoth, stopped by there?”
“Of that there can be no doubt, Messire.”
Again silence fell, and the two on the terrace gazed at the fragmented, dazzling sunlight in the upper-floor windows of the huge buildings facing west. Woland’s eye burned like one of those windows, though Woland had his back to the sunset.
But here something made Woland turn his attention to the round tower behind him on the roof. From its wall stepped a tattered, clay-covered, sullen man in a chiton, in home-made sandals, black-bearded.
“Hah!” exclaimed Woland, looking mockingly at the newcomer. “Least of all would I expect you here! What have you come with, uninvited guest?”
“I have come to see you, spirit of evil and sovereign of shadows,” the newcomer replied, glowering inimically at Woland.
“If you’ve come to see me, why didn’t you wish me a good evening, former tax collector?” Woland said sternly.
“Because I don’t wish you a good anything,” the newcomer replied insolendy.
“But you’ll have to reconcile yourself to that,” Woland objected, and a grin twisted his mouth. “You no sooner appear on the roof than you produce an absurdity, and I’ll tell you what it is — it’s your intonation. You uttered your words as if you don’t acknowledge shadows, or evil either.
Kindly consider the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? Shadows are cast by objects and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. Trees and living beings also have shadows. Do you want to skin the whole earth, tearing all the trees and living things off it, because of your fantasy of enjoying bare light? You’re a fool.”
“I won’t argue with you, old sophist,” replied Matthew Levi.
“You also cannot argue with me, for the reason I’ve already mentioned: you’re a fool,” Woland replied and asked: "Well, make it short, don’t weary me, why have you appeared?”
“He sent me.”
“What did he tell you to say, slave?”
“I’m not a slave,” Matthew Levi replied, growing ever angrier, “I’m his disciple.”
“You and I speak different languages, as usual,” responded Woland, “but the things we say don’t change for all that. And so? ...”
“He has read the master’s work,” said Matthew Levi, “and asks you to take the master with you and reward him with peace. Is that hard for you to do, spirit of evil?”
“Nothing is hard for me to do,” answered Woland, “you know that very well.” He paused and added: “But why don’t you take him with you into the light?”
“He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace,” Levi said in a sorrowful voice.
“Tell him it will be done,” Woland replied and added, his eye flashing: “And leave me immediately.”
“He asks that she who loved him and suffered because of him also be taken with him,” Levi addressed Woland pleadingly for the first time.
“We would never have thought of it without you. Go.”
Matthew Levi disappeared after that, and Woland called Azazello and ordered him: “Fly to them and arrange it all.”
Azazello left the terrace, and Woland remained alone.
But his solitude did not last. Over the flags of the terrace came the sound of footsteps and animated voices, and before Woland stood Koroviev and Behemoth. But now the fat fellow had no primus with him, but was loaded with other things. Thus, under his arm he had a small landscape in a gold frame, from one hand hung a half-burnt cook’s smock, and in the other he held a whole salmon with skin and tail. Koroviev and Behemoth reeked of fire.
Behemoth’s mug was all sooty and his cap was badly burnt.
“Greetings, Messire!” cried the irrepressible pair, and Behemoth waved the salmon.
“A fine sight,” said Woland.
“Imagine, Messire!” Behemoth cried excitedly and joyfully, “I was taken for a looter!”
“Judging by the things you
’ve brought,” Woland replied, glancing at the landscape, “you are a looter!”
“Believe me, Messire ...” Behemoth began in a soulful voice.
“No, I don’t,” Woland replied curdy.
“Messire, I swear, I made heroic efforts to save everything I could, and this is all I was able to rescue.”
“You’d better tell me, why did Griboedov’s catch fire?” asked Woland.
Both Koroviev and Behemoth spread their arms, raised their eyes to heaven, and Behemoth cried out: “I can’t conceive why! We were sitting there peacefully, perfectly quiet, having a bite to eat...”
“And suddenly – bang, bang!” Koroviev picked up, “gunshots! Crazed with fear. Behemoth and I ran out to the boulevard, our pursuers followed, we rushed to Timiriazev!...”[172]
“But the sense of duty,” Behemoth put in, “overcame our shameful fear and we went back.”
“Ah, you went back?” said Woland. “Well, then of course the building was reduced to ashes.”
“To ashes!” Koroviev ruefully confirmed, “that is, Messire, literally to ashes, as you were pleased to put it so aptly. Nothing but embers!”
“I hastened,” Behemoth narrated, “to the meeting room, the one with the columns, Messire, hoping to bring out something valuable. Ah, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, was twenty times in danger of being left a widow!
But happily, Messire, I’m not married, and, let me tell you, I’m really happy that I’m not. Ah, Messire, how can one trade a bachelor’s freedom for the burdensome yoke ...”
“Again some gibberish gets going,” observed Woland.
“I hear and continue,” the cat replied. “Yes, sir, this landscape here!
It was impossible to bring anything more out of the meeting room, the flames were beating in my face. I ran to the pantry and rescued the salmon. I ran to the kitchen and rescued the smock. I think, Messire, that I did everything I could, and I don’t understand how to explain the sceptical expression on your face.”
“And what did Koroviev do while you were looting?” asked Woland.
“I was helping the firemen, Messire,” replied Koroviev, pointing to his torn trousers.
“Ah, if so, then of course a new building will have to be built.”
“It will be built, Messire,” Koroviev responded, “I venture to assure you of that.”
“Well, so it remains for us to wish that it be better than the old one,” observed Woland.
“It will be, Messire,” said Koroviev.
“You can believe me,” the cat added, “I’m a regular prophet.”
“In any case, we’re here, Messire,” Koroviev reported, “and await your orders.”
Woland got up from his stool, went over to the balustrade, and alone, silently, his back turned to his retinue, gazed into the distance for a long time. Then he stepped away from the edge, lowered himself on to his stool, and said: “There will be no orders, you have fulfilled all you could, and for the moment I no longer need your services. You may rest. Right now a storm is coming, the last storm, it will complete all that needs completing, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Very well, Messire,” the two buffoons replied and disappeared somewhere behind the round central tower, which stood in the middle of the terrace.
The storm of which Woland had spoken was already gathering on the horizon. A black cloud rose in the west and cut off half the sun. Then it covered it entirely. The air became cool on the terrace. A little later it turned dark.
This darkness which came from the west covered the vast city. Bridges and palaces disappeared. Everything vanished as if it had never existed in the world. One fiery thread ran across the whole sky. Then a thunderclap shook the city. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland could no longer be seen in its gloom.
Chapter 30. It’s Time! It’s Time!
“You know,” said Margarita, “just as you fell asleep last night, I was reading about the darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea ... and those idols, ah, the golden idols! For some reason they never leave me in peace. I think it’s going to rain now, too. Do you feel how cool it’s getting?”
“That’s all well and good,” replied the master, smoking and breaking up the smoke with his hand, “and as for the idols. God be with them ... but what will happen further on is decidedly unclear!”
This conversation occurred at sunset, just at the moment when Matthew Levi came to Woland on the terrace. The basement window was open, and if anyone had looked through it, he would have been astonished at how strange the talkers looked. Margarita had a black cloak thrown directly over her naked body, and the master was in his hospital underwear. The reason for this was that Margarita had decidedly nothing to put on, because all her clothes had stayed in her house, and though this house was very near by, there was, of course, no question of going there to take her clothes. And the master, whose clothes were all found in the wardrobe as if he had never gone anywhere, simply did not want to get dressed, developing before Margarita the thought that some perfect nonsense was about to begin at any moment. True, he was clean-shaven for the first time since that autumn night (in the clinic his beard had been cut with clippers).
The room also had a strange look, and it was very hard to make anything out in its chaos. Manuscripts were lying on the rug, and on the sofa as well. A book sat humpbacked on an armchair. And dinner was set out on the round table, with several botdes standing among the dishes of food. Where all this food and drink came from was known neither to Margarita nor to the master. On waking up they found everything already on the table.
Having slept until sunset Saturday, the master and his friend felt themselves thoroughly fortified, and only one thing told of the previous day’s adventure — both had a slight ache in the left temple. But with regard to their minds, there were great changes in both of them, as anyone would have been convinced who was able to eavesdrop on the conversation in the basement. But there was decidedly no one to eavesdrop. That little courtyard was good precisely for being always empty. With each day the greening lindens and the ivy outside the window exuded an ever stronger smell of spring, and the rising breeze carried it into the basement.
“Pah, the devil!” exclaimed the master unexpectedly. “But, just think, it’s ...” he put out his cigarette butt in the ashtray and pressed his head with his hands. “No, listen, you’re an intelligent person and have never been crazy ... are you seriously convinced that we were at Satan’s yesterday?”
“Quite seriously,” Margarita replied.
“Of course, of course,” the master said ironically, ‘so now instead of one madman there are two – husband and wife!” He raised his hands to heaven and cried: “No, the devil knows what this is! The devil, the devil...”
Instead of answering, Margarita collapsed on the sofa, burst out laughing, waved her bare legs, and only then cried out: “Aie, I can’t ... I can’t! You should see what you look like!...”
Having finished laughing, while the master bashfully pulled up his hospital drawers, Margarita became serious.
“You unwittingly spoke the truth just now,” she began, “the devil knows what it is, and the devil, believe me, will arrange everything!” Her eyes suddenly flashed, she jumped up and began dancing on the spot, crying out: “How happy I am, how happy I am, how happy I am that I struck a bargain with him! Oh, Satan, Satan! ... You’ll have to live with a witch, my dear!” Then she rushed to the master, put her arms around his neck, and began kissing his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Strands of unkempt black hair leaped at the master, and his cheeks and forehead burned under the kisses.
“And you’ve really come to resemble a witch.” “And I don’t deny it,” answered Margarita, “I’m a witch and I’m very glad of it.”
“Well, all right,” said the master, ‘so you’re a witch, very nice, splendid! And I’ve been stolen from the hospital ... also very nice! I’ve been brought here, let’s grant that, too. Let’s even suppose that we won’t be missed ... Bu
t tell me, by all that’s holy, how and on what are we going to live? My concern is for you when I say that, believe me!”
At that moment round-toed shoes and the lower part of a pair of pinstriped trousers appeared in the window. Then the trousers bent at the knee and somebody’s hefty backside blocked the daylight.
“Aloisy, are you home?” asked a voice somewhere up above the trousers, outside the window.
“There, it’s beginning,” said the master.
“Aloisy?” asked Margarita, going closer to the window. “He was arrested yesterday. Who’s asking for him? What’s your name?”
That instant the knees and backside vanished, there came the bang of the gate, after which everything returned to normal. Margarita collapsed on the sofa and laughed so that tears poured from her eyes. But when she calmed down, her countenance changed greatly, she began speaking seriously, and as she spoke she slipped down from the couch, crept over to the master’s knees, and, looking into his eyes, began to caress his head.
“How you’ve suffered, how you’ve suffered, my poor one! I’m the only one who knows it. Look, you’ve got white threads in your hair, and an eternal crease by your lips! My only one, my dearest, don’t think about anything! You’ve had to think too much, and now I’ll think for you. And I promise you, I promise, that everything will be dazzlingly well!”
“I’m not afraid of anything, Margot,” the master suddenly answered her and raised his head, and he seemed to her the same as he had been when he was inventing that which he had never seen, but of which he knew for certain that it had been, “not afraid, because I’ve already experienced it all. They tried too hard to frighten me, and cannot frighten me with anything any more. But I pity you, Margot, that’s the trick, that’s why I keep saying it over and over. Come to your senses! Why do you have to ruin your life with a sick man and a beggar? Go back! I pity you, that’s why I say it.”