فصل 29

XXIX

The Fate of the Master and Margarita Is Decided

AT Sunset, high above the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beautiful buildings in Moscow, a building built about a hundred and fifty years ago, were two figures: Woland and Azazello. They could not be seen from below, from the street, since they were shielded from unwelcome stares by a balustrade decorated with stucco vases and stucco flowers. They, on the other hand, could see almost to the very edge of the city.

Dressed in his black soutane, Woland was seated on a folding taboret. His long broadsword had been rammed vertically into the crack between two flagstones, thus forming a sundial. The sword’s shadow lengthened slowly and steadily as it crept up to the black slippers on Satan’s feet. With his sharp chin resting on his fist and one leg folded beneath him, Woland sat hunched on the taboret, staring fixedly at the vast assortment of huge buildings, palaces, and shacks condemned to destruction.

Azazello had shed his contemporary attire, that is, his jacket, bowler hat, and patent-leather shoes, and like Woland was dressed in black. He stood motionless, not far from his master, and like him, stared at the city.

Woland spoke, “What an interesting city, don’t you think?”

Azazello stirred and replied respectfully, “Messire, I prefer Rome!”

“Yes, it’s a matter of taste,” answered Woland.

A short while later his voice sounded again, “What’s that smoke over there on the boulevard?” “That’s Griboyedov burning,” replied Azazello.

“One must assume, then, that the inseparable pair, Korovyov and Behemoth, paid them a visit?” “No doubt about it, Messire.”

Again there was silence, and the two on the terrace watched as the broken, blinding sun caught fire in the westward-facing, upper-storey windows of the massive buildings. Woland’s eye burned like one of those windows, even though he had his back to the sunset.

But something made Woland turn away from the city here and focus his attention on the round tower on the roof behind him. Emerging from the tower wall was a somber, mud-stained, black-bearded man wearing a torn chiton and homemade sandals.

“Hah!” exclaimed Woland, looking mockingly at the man who had entered. “You’re the last person one would have expected to see here! What brings you here, uninvited, but expected guest?” “I’ve come to see you, Spirit of Evil and Sovereign of the Shadows,” replied the man, looking sullenly at Woland from under his furrowed brows.

“If you’ve come to see me, then why haven’t you greeted me and wished me well, former tax collector?” said Woland in a stern voice.

“Because I don’t want you to be well,” was the newcomer’s impudent reply.

“Nevertheless, you’ll have to reconcile yourself to the fact that I am,” retorted Woland with a twisted smile. “No sooner do you appear on the roof than you blab nonsense, and I’ll tell you what it is—it’s in your intonation. You pronounced your words as if you refuse to acknowledge the existence of either shadows or evil. But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and from living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You’re stupid.” “I won’t argue with you, old sophist,” replied Levi Matvei.

“You can’t argue with me because of what I just said—you’re stupid,” replied Woland, and asked, “Well, tell me briefly, without tiring me, why have you appeared?” “He sent me.”

“What did he order you to tell me, slave?”

“I am not a slave,” replied Levi Matvei, becoming more enraged, “I am his disciple.” “We are speaking different languages, as always,” rejoined Woland, “but that doesn’t change the things we talk about. So? …” “He has read the Master’s work,” began Levi Matvei, “and asks that you take the Master with you and grant him peace. Is that so difficult for you to do, Spirit of Evil?” “Nothing is difficult for me to do,” replied Woland, “as you well know.” He was silent for a moment and then added, “But why aren’t you taking him with you to the light?” “He has not earned light, he has earned peace,” said Levi in a sad voice.

“Tell him that it shall be done,” replied Woland, and added, his eye suddenly flashing, “and leave me this instant.” “He asks that you also take the one who loved him and who suffered because of him,” said Levi to Woland, imploring for the first time.

“We would never have thought of that without you. Leave.”

Levi Matvei disappeared after this, and Woland called Azazello and commanded him, “Fly to them and arrange everything.” Azazello left the terrace and Woland remained alone.

But his solitude was not of long duration. Footsteps and animated voices were heard on the terrace, and Korovyov and Behemoth appeared before Woland. But now the fat man was without his primus stove, but was loaded down with other things. Under his arm was a small landscape in a gold frame, over his arm a badly singed cook’s smock, and in his other hand a whole salmon, skin on and tail attached. Korovyov and Behemoth both reeked of smoke, Behemoth’s mug was covered with soot and his cap was half-singed.

“Salutations, Messire!” cried the indefatigable pair, and Behemoth waved his salmon.

“You’re a fine sight,” said Woland.

“Imagine, Messire,” began Behemoth, shouting joyfully and excitedly, “they thought I was a looter!” “Judging by what you’ve got with you,” replied Woland, looking at the landscape, “you are a looter.” “Can you believe, Messire …” began Behemoth in a heartfelt voice.

“No, I can’t believe,” was Woland’s curt reply.

“Messire, I swear I made heroic efforts to save everything I could, but this was all I could salvage.” “You would do better to tell me, how did Griboyedov catch fire?” asked Woland.

Korovyov and Behemoth both spread their arms and raised their eyes skyward, and Behemoth cried, “I have no idea! We were sitting peacefully, perfectly quietly, having a bite to eat …” “And suddenly—bang! bang!” chimed in Korovyov. “They were shooting at us! Frightened out of our minds, Behemoth and I ran out into the street, the pursuers ran after us, and we made a dash for Timiryazev!” “But a sense of duty,” inserted Behemoth, “overcame our shameful fear, and we went back!” “Ah, you went back, did you?” said Woland. “So, of course then, the building burned to the ground.” “To the ground!” affirmed Korovyov sorrowfully. “That is, literally to the ground, Messire, as you so accurately phrased it. Nothing left but smouldering chips!” “I headed straight,” Behemoth recounted, “for the assembly hall—that’s the one with the columns, Messire—expecting to save something valuable. Oh, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, risked being widowed twenty times over! Fortunately, Messire, I am not married, and I’ll tell you frankly—I’m happy not to be. Oh, Messire, who would exchange the freedom of bachelorhood for a yoke around the neck!” “The nonsense has begun again,” observed Woland.

“I’m listening and continuing with my story,” replied the cat, “yessir, here’s a small landscape. It was impossible to remove anything else from the hall, the flames were in my face. I ran to the storeroom and salvaged the salmon. Ran to the kitchen and salvaged the smock. I consider, Messire, that I did everything I could, and I fail to understand the skeptical look on your face.” “And what was Korovyov doing while you were looting?” inquired Woland.

“I was helping the firemen, Messire,” replied Korovyov, pointing to his torn trousers.

“Ah, if that’s true, then naturally, they’ll have to build a new building.” “It will be built, Messire,” answered Korovyov. “I can assure you of that.” “Well, then, all that is left is to hope that the new one will be better than the old,” remarked Woland.

“And so it shall, Messire,” said Korovyov.

“Believe me, it will,” added the cat. “I’m a regular prophet.”

“In any case, we’re back, Messire,” reported Korovyov, “and we await your instructions.” Woland got up from his taboret, went over to the balustrade, and, turning his back on his retinue, gazed silently into the distance for a long time. Then he went back, sat down on his taboret again, and said, “There will be no instructions—you have done everything you could, and for the time being, I have no further need of your services. You may rest. A thunderstorm is coming, the last thunderstorm, and it will accomplish everything that needs to be accomplished, and then we will be on our way.” “Very well, Messire,” replied the two buffoons and disappeared somewhere behind the central round tower in the middle of the terrace.

The thunderstorm that Woland had mentioned was already gathering on the horizon. A black cloud had risen in the west and cut off half the sun. Then it covered it completely. It got cooler on the terrace. Soon thereafter, it got dark.

This darkness, which came from the west, enveloped the huge city. Bridges and palaces disappeared. Everything vanished as if it had never existed. A single streak of fire ran across the whole sky. Then a clap of thunder shook the city. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland ceased to be visible in its darkness.