The Master and Margarita (44 page)

The cat sat scowling throughout the shooting trial, and suddenly announced: “I undertake to beat the record with the seven.”

Azazello growled out something in reply to that. But the cat was stubborn, and demanded not one but two guns. Azazello took a second gun from the second back pocket of his trousers and, twisting his mouth disdainfully, handed it to the braggart together with the first. Two pips were marked on the seven. The cat made lengthy preparations, turning his back to the pillow. Margarita sat with her fingers in her ears and looked at the owl dozing on the mantelpiece. The cat fired both guns, after which Hella shrieked at once, the owl fell dead from the mantelpiece, and the smashed clock stopped. Hella, whose hand was all bloody, clutched at the cat’s fur with a howl, and he clutched her hair in retaliation, and the two got tangled into a ball and rolled on the floor. One of the goblets fell from the table and broke.

“Pull this rabid hellion off me!” wailed the cat, fighting off Hella, who was sitting astride him. The combatants were separated, and Koroviev blew on Hella’s bullet-pierced finger and it mended.

“I can’t shoot when someone’s talking at my elbow!” shouted Behemoth, trying to stick in place a huge clump of fur pulled from his back.

“I’ll bet,” said Woland, smiling to Margarita, “that he did this stunt on purpose. He’s not a bad shot.”

Hella and the cat made peace and, as a sign of their reconciliation, exchanged kisses. The card was taken from under the pillow and checked. Not a single pip had been hit, except for the one shot through by Azazello.

"That can’t be,” insisted the cat, holding the card up to the light of the candelabra.

The merry supper went on. The candles guttered in the candelabra, the dry, fragrant warmth of the fireplace spread waves over the room.

After eating, Margarita was enveloped in a feeling of bliss. She watched the blue-grey smoke-rings from Azazello’s cigar float into the fireplace, while the cat caught them on the tip of a sword. She did not want to go anywhere, though according to her reckoning it was already late. By all tokens, it was getting on towards six in the morning. Taking advantage of a pause, Margarita turned to Woland and said timidly: “I suppose it’s time for me ... it’s late ...”

“What’s your hurry?” asked Woland, politely but a bit drily. The rest kept silent, pretending to be occupied with the smoke-rings.

“Yes, it’s time,” Margarita repeated, quite embarrassed by it, and looked around as if searching for some cape or cloak. She was suddenly embarrassed by her nakedness. She got up from the table. Woland silently took his worn-out and greasy dressing-gown from the bed, and Koroviev threw it over Margarita’s shoulders.

“I thank you, Messire,” Margarita said barely audibly, and looked questioningly at Woland. In reply, he smiled at her courteously and indifferently. Black anguish somehow surged up all at once in Margarita’s heart. She felt herself deceived. No rewards would be offered her for all her services at the ball, apparently, just as no one was detaining her. And yet it was perfectly clear to her that she had nowhere to go. The fleeting thought of having to return to her house provoked an inward burst of despair in her. Should she ask, as Azazello had temptingly advised in the Alexandrovsky Garden? “No, not for anything!” she said to herself.

“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 beginning 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.