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Magazine for tourists

Table of contents


Kinds of tourism

Excursion (author BV Emelyanov)

introduction

1. Fundamentals Excursion

2. guided technique

3. Professional skills guide

Tunisia (author Danielle shetar Friedrich chum)

In the Sikhote-Alin (author VK Arseniev)

Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog

Mikhail bulgakov. the master and margarita

 Contents
 1. never talk to strangers
 Pontius pilate
 The seventh proof
 The pursuit
 The affair at griboyedov
 Schizophrenia
 The haunted flat
 A. duel between professor and poet
 Koroviev's tricks
 News from yalta
 The two ivans
 Black magic revealed
 Enter the hero
 Saved by cock-crow
 The dream of nikanor ivanovich
 The execution
 A day of anxiety
 Unwelcome visitors
 Margarita
 Azazello's cream
 The flight
 By candlelight
 Satan's rout
 The master is released
 How the procurator tried to save judas of karioth
 The burial
 The last of flat no.50
 The final adventure of koroviev and behemoth
 The fate of the master and margarita is decided
 Time to go
 On sparrow hills
 Absolution and eternal refuge
 Epilogue
Charlotte bronte. jane eyre

F. scott fitzgerald / the great gatsby

Jerome klapka jerome / three men in a boat


 Home
     Mikhail bulgakov. the master and margarita
          Enter the hero

Enter the Hero

Ivan swung his legs off the bed and stared. A man was standing on the

balcony, peering cautiously into the room. He was aged about thirty-eight,

clean-shaven and dark, with a sharp nose, restless eyes and a lock of hair

that tumbled over his forehead.

The mysterious visitor listened awhile then, satisfied that Ivan was

alone, entered the room. As he came in Ivan noticed that the man was wearing

hospital clothes--pyjamas, slippers and a reddish-brown dressing gown thrown

over his shoulders.

The visitor winked at Ivan, put a bunch of keys into his pocket and

asked in a whisper : ' May I sit down? ' Receiving an affirmative reply he

settled in the armchair.

' How did you get in here? ' Ivan whispered in obedience to a warning

finger. ' The grilles on the windows are locked, aren't they? '

' The grilles are locked,' agreed the visitor. ' Praskovya Fyodorovna

is a dear person but alas, terribly absent-minded. A month ago I removed

this bunch of keys from her, which has given me the freedom of the balcony.

It stretches along the whole floor, so that I can call on my neighbours

whenever I feel like it.'

' If you can get out on to the balcony you can run away. Or is it too

high to jump? ' enquired Ivan with interest.

' No,' answered the visitor firmly, ' I can't escape from here. Not

because it's too high but because I've nowhere to go.' After a pause he

added : ' So here we are.'

' Here we are,' echoed Ivan, gazing into the man's restless brown eyes.

' Yes . . .' The visitor grew suddenly anxious. ' You're not violent, I

hope? You see, I can't bear noise, disturbance, violence or anything of that

sort. I particularly hate the sound of people screaming, whether it's a

scream of pain, anger or any other kind of scream. Just reassure me--you're

not violent, are you? '

' Yesterday in a restaurant I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the

poet confessed manfully.

' What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.

' For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.

' Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:

' And I don't care for that expression of yours--clouted him across the

snout. . . . People have faces, not snouts. So I suppose you mean you

punched him in the face. . . . No, you must give up doing that sort of

thing.'

After this reprimand the visitor enquired :

' What's your job? '

' I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.

This annoyed the man.

' Just my bad luck! ' he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,

apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '

' Bezdomny.'

' Oh . . .' said the man frowning.

' What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.

' No, I don't.'

' Have you read any of it? '

' I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.

' Then how can you say that? '

' Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read plenty of other

poetry. I don't suppose by some miracle that yours is any better, but I'm

ready to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?'

' Stupendous! ' said Ivan boldly.

' Don't write any more! ' said the visitor imploringly.

' I promise not to! ' said Ivan solemnly.

As they sealed the vow with a handshake, soft footsteps and voices

could be heard from the corridor.

' Sshh! ' whispered the man. He bounded out on to the balcony and

closed the grille behind him.

Praskovya Fyodorovna looked in, asked Ivan how he felt and whether he

wanted to sleep in the dark or the light. Ivan asked her to leave the light

on and Praskovya Fyodorovna departed, wishing him good night. When all was

quiet again the visitor returned.

He told Ivan in a whisper that a new patient had been put into No.

119--a fat man with a purple face who kept muttering about dollars in the

ventilation shaft and swearing that the powers of darkness had taken over

their house on Sadovaya. ' He curses Pushkin for all he's worth and keeps

shouting " Encore, encore! " ' said the visitor, twitching nervously. When

he had grown a little calmer he sat down and said : ' However, let's forget

about him,' and resumed his interrupted conversation with Ivan : ' How did

you come to be here? '

' Because of Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan, staring glumly at the

floor.

' What?! ' cried the visitor, forgetting his caution, then clapped his

hand over his mouth. ' What an extraordinary coincidence! Do tell me about

it, I beg of you! '

For some reason Ivan felt that he could trust this stranger. Shyly at

first, then gaining confidence, he began to describe the previous day's

events at Patriarch's Ponds. His visitor treated Ivan as completely sane,

showed the greatest interest in the story and as it developed he reached a

state of near ecstasy. Now and again he interrupted Ivan, exclaiming :

' Yes, yes! Please go on! For heaven's sake don't leave anything out!

'Ivan left out nothing, as it made the story easier to tell and gradually he

approached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in his white cloak lined with

blood-red, mounted the platform.

Then the visitor folded his hands as though in prayer and whispered to

himself:

' Oh, I guessed it! I guessed it all! '

Listening to the terrible description of Berlioz's death, the visitor

made an enigmatic comment, his eyes flashing with malice :

' I'm only sorry that it wasn't Latunsky the critic or that hack

Mstislav Lavrovich instead of Berlioz! ' And he mouthed silently and

ecstatically : ' Go on! '

The visitor was highly amused by the story of how the cat had paid the

conductress and he was choking with suppressed laughter as Ivan, stimulated

by the success of his story-telling, hopped about on his haunches, imitating

the cat stroking his whiskers with a ten-kopeck piece.

' And so,' said Ivan, saddening as he described the scene at

Griboyedov, ' here I am.'

The visitor laid a sympathetic hand on the wretched poet's shoulder and

said:

' Unhappy poet! But it's your own fault, my dear fellow. You shouldn't

have treated him so carelessly and rudely. Now you're paying for it. You

should be thankful that you got off comparatively lightly.'

' But who on earth is he? ' asked Ivan, clenching his fists in

excitement.

The visitor stared at Ivan and answered with a question :

' You won't get violent, will you? We're all unstable people here . . .

There won't be any calls for the doctor, injections or any disturbances of

that sort, will there? '

' No, no! ' exclaimed Ivan. ' Tell me, who is he? '

' Very well,' replied the visitor, and said slowly and gravely :

' At Patriarch's Ponds yesterday you met Satan.'

As he had promised, Ivan did not become violent, but he was powerfully

shaken.

' It can't be! He doesn't exist!'

' Come, come! Surely you of all people can't say that. You were

apparently one of the first to suffer from him. Here you are, shut up in a

psychiatric clinic, and you still say he doesn't exist. How strange! '

Ivan was reduced to speechlessness.

' As soon as you started to describe him,' the visitor went on, ' I

guessed who it was that you were talking to yesterday. I must say I'm

surprised at Berlioz! You, of course, are an innocent,' again the visitor

apologised for his expression, ' but he, from what I've heard of him, was at

least fairly well read. The first remarks that this professor made to you

dispelled all my doubts. He's unmistakeable, my friend! You are ... do

forgive me again, but unless I'm wrong, you are an ignorant person, aren't

you? '

' I am indeed,' agreed the new Ivan.

' Well, you see, even the face you described, the different-coloured

eyes, the eyebrows . . . Forgive me, but have you even seen the opera Faust?

'

Ivan mumbled an embarrassed excuse.

' There you are, it's not surprising! But, as I said before, I'm

surprised at Berlioz. He's not only well read but extremely cunning.

Although in his defence I must say that Woland is quite capable of throwing

dust in the eyes of men who are even cleverer than Berlioz.'

' What? ' shouted Ivan.

‘ Quiet!'

With a sweeping gesture Ivan smacked his forehead with his palm and

croaked:

' I see it now. There was a letter " W " on his visiting card. Well I'm

damned! ' He sat for a while in perplexity, staring at the moon floating

past the grille and then said: ' So he really might have known Pontius

Pilate? He was alive then, I suppose? And they call me mad! ' he added,

pointing indignantly towards the door.

The visitor's mouth set in a fold of bitterness.

' We must look the facts in the face.' The visitor turned his face

towards the moon as it raced through a cloud. ' Both you and I are mad,

there's no point in denying it. He gave you a shock and it sent you mad,

because you were temperamentally liable to react in that way. Nevertheless

what you have described unquestionably happened in fact. But it is so

unusual that even Stravinsky, a psychiatrist of genius, naturally didn't

believe you. Has he examined you? (Ivan nodded.) The man you were talking to

was with Pontius Pilate, he did have breakfast with Kant and now he has paid

a call on Moscow.' ' But God knows what he may do here! Shouldn't we try and

catch him somehow! ' The old Ivan raised his head, uncertain but not yet

quite extinguished.

' You've already tried and look where it's got you,' said the visitor

ironically. ' I don't advise others to try. But he will cause more trouble,

you may be sure of that. How infuriating, though, that you met him and not

I. Although I'm a burnt-out man and the embers have died away to ash, I

swear that I would have given up Praskovya Fyodorovna's bunch of keys in

exchange for that meeting. Those keys are all I have. I am destitute.' ' Why

do you want to see him so badly? ' After a long, gloomy silence the visitor

said at last:

' You see, it's most extraordinary, but I am in here for exactly the

same reason that you are, I mean because of Pontius Pilate.' The visitor

glanced uneasily round and said : ' The fact is that a year ago I wrote a

novel about Pilate.'

' Are you a writer? ' asked the poet with interest. The visitor

frowned, threatened Ivan with his fist and said:

' I am a master.' His expression hardened and he pulled out of his

dressing gown pocket a greasy black cap with the letter ' M ' embroidered on

it in yellow silk. He put the cap on and showed himself to Ivan in profile

and full face to prove that he was a master. ' She sewed it for me with her

own hands,' he added mysteriously. ' What is your name? '

' I no longer have a name,' replied the curious visitor with grim

contempt. ' I have renounced it, as I have renounced life itself. Let us

forget it.'

' At least tell me about your novel,' asked Ivan tactfully. ' If you

wish. I should say that my life has been a somewhat unusual one,' began the

visitor.

A historian by training, two years ago he had, it seemed, been employed

in one of the Moscow museums. He was also a translator.

' From which language? ' asked Ivan.

' I know five languages beside my own,' replied the visitor. ' English,

French, German, Latin and Greek. And I read Italian a little.'

' Phew! ' Ivan whistled with envy.

This historian lived alone, had no relatives and knew almost no one in

Moscow. One day he won a hundred thousand roubles.

' Imagine my astonishment,' whispered the visitor in his black cap, '

when I fished my lottery ticket out of the laundry basket and saw that it

had the same number as the winning draw printed in the paper! The museum,'

he explained, ' had given me the ticket.'

Having won his hundred thousand, Ivan's mysterious guest bought some

books, gave up his room on Myasnitskaya Street...

' Ugh, it was a filthy hole! ' he snarled.

. . . and rented two rooms in the basement of a small house with a

garden near the Arbat. He gave up his job in the museum and began writing

his novel about Pontius Pilate.

' Ah, that was a golden age! ' whispered the narrator, his eyes

shining. ' A completely self-contained little flat and a hall with a sink

and running water,' he emphasised proudly, ' little windows just above the

level of the path leading from the garden gate. Only a few steps away, by

the garden fence, was a lilac, a lime tree and a maple. Ah, me! In winter I

rarely saw anyone walking up the garden path or heard the crunch of snow.

And there was always a blaze in my little stove! But suddenly it was spring

and through the muddied panes of my windows I saw first the bare branches

then the green of the first leaves. And then, last spring, something

happened which was far more delightful than winning a hundred thousand

roubles. And that, you must agree, is an enormous sum of money! '

' It is,' Ivan agreed, listening intently.

' I had opened the windows and was sitting in the second room, which

was quite tiny.' The visitor made measuring gestures. ' Like this--the divan

here, another divan along the other wall, a beautiful lamp on a little table

between them, a bookcase by the window and over here a little bureau. The

main room was huge--fourteen square metres!--books, more books and a stove.

It was a marvellous little place. How deliciously the lilac used to smell! I

was growing light-headed with fatigue and Pilate was coming to an end . . .'

' White cloak, red lining! How I know the feeling! ' exclaimed Ivan.

' Precisely! Pilate was rushing to a conclusion and I already knew what

the last words of the novel would be--" the fifth Procurator of Judaea, the

knight Pontius Pilate ". Naturally I used to go out for walks. A hundred

thousand is a huge sum and I had a handsome suit. Or I would go out for

lunch to a restaurant. There used to be a wonderful restaurant in the Arbat,

I don't know whether it's still there.'

Here his eyes opened wide and as he whispered he gazed at the moon.

' She was carrying some of those repulsive yellow flowers. God knows

what they're called, but they are somehow always the first to come out in

spring. They stood out very sharply against her black dress. She was

carrying yellow flowers! It's an ugly colour. She turned off Tverskaya into

a side-street and turned round. You know the Tverskaya, don't you? There

must have been a thousand people on it but I swear to you that she saw no

one but me. She had a look of suffering and I was struck less by her beauty

than by the extraordinary loneliness in her eyes. Obeying that yellow signal

I too turned into the side-street and followed her. We walked in silence

down that dreary, winding little street without saying a word, she on one

side, I on the other. There was not another soul in the street. I was in

agony because I felt I had to speak to her and was worried that I might not

be able to utter a word, she would disappear and I should never see her

again. Then, if you can believe it, she said :

Do you like my flowers?

' I remember exactly how her voice sounded. It was pitched fairly low

but with a catch in it and stupid as it may sound I had the impression that

it echoed across the street and reverberated from the dirty yellow wall. I

quickly crossed to her side and going up to her replied : " No ' She looked

at me in surprise and suddenly, completely unexpectedly, I realised that I

had been in love with this woman all my life. Extraordinary, isn't it?

You'll say I was mad, I expect.'

' I say nothing of the sort,' exclaimed Ivan, adding : ' Please, please

go on.'

The visitor continued:

' Yes, she looked at me in surprise and then she said : " Don't you

like flowers at all? "

' There was, I felt, hostility in her voice. I walked on alongside her,

trying to walk in step with her and to my amazement I felt completely free

of shyness.

' " No, I like flowers, only not these," I said.

' " Which flowers do you like? "

' " I love roses."

' I immediately regretted having said it, because she smiled guiltily

and threw her flowers into the gutter. Slightly embarrassed, I picked them

up and gave them to her but she pushed them away with a smile and I had to

carry them.

' We walked on in silence for a while until she pulled the flowers out

of my hand and threw them in the roadway, then slipped her black-gloved hand

into mine and we went on.'

' Go on,' said Ivan, ' and please don't leave anything out! '

' Well,' said the visitor, ' you can guess what happened after that.'

He wiped away a sudden tear with his right sleeve and went on. ' Love leaped

up out at us like a murderer jumping out of a dark alley. It shocked us

both--the shock of a stroke of lightning, the shock of a flick-knife. Later

she said that this wasn't so, that we had of course been in love for years

without knowing each other and never meeting, that she had merely been

living with another man and I had been living with . . . that girl, what was

her name . . .? '

' With whom? ' asked Bezdomny.

' With . . . er, that girl . . . she was called . . .' said the

visitor, snapping his fingers in a vain effort to remember.

' Were you married to her? ' ' Yes, of course I was, that's why it's so

embarrassing to forget ... I think it was Varya ... or was it Manya? . . .

no, Varya, that's it ... she wore a striped dress, worked at the museum. . .

. No good, can't remember. So, she used to say, she had gone out that

morning carrying those yellow flowers for me to find her at last and that if

it hadn't happened she would have committed suicide because her life was

empty.

' Yes, the shock of love struck us both at once. I knew it within the

hour when we found ourselves, quite unawares, on the embankment below the

Kremlin wall. We talked as though we had only parted the day before, as

though we had known each other for years. We agreed to meet the next day at

the same place by the Moscow River and we did. The May sun shone on us and

soon that woman became my mistress.

' She came to me every day at noon. I began waiting for her from early

morning. The strain of waiting gave me hallucinations of seeing things on

the table. After ten minutes I would sit at my little window and start to

listen for the creak of that ancient garden gate. It was curious : until I

met her no one ever came into our little yard. Now it seemed to me that the

whole town was crowding in. The gate would creak, my heart would bound and

outside the window a pair of muddy boots would appear level with my head. A

knife-grinder. Who in our house could possibly need a knife-grinder? What

was there for him to sharpen? Whose knives?

' She only came through that gate once a day, but my heart would beat

faster from at least ten false alarms every morning. Then when her time came

and the hands were pointing to noon, my heart went on thumping until her

shoes with their black patent-leather straps and steel buckles drew level,

almost soundlessly, with my basement window.

' Sometimes for fun she would stop at the second window and tap the

pane with her foot. In a second I would appear at that window but always her

shoe and her black silk dress that blocked the light had vanished and I

would turn instead to the hall to let her in.

' Nobody knew about our liaison, I can swear to that, although as a

rule no one can keep such affairs a complete secret. Her husband didn't

know, our friends didn't know. The other tenants in that forgotten old house

knew, of course, because they could see that a woman called on me every day,

but they never knew her name.'

' Who was she?' asked Ivan, deeply fascinated by this love story.

The visitor made a sign which meant that he would never reveal this to

anyone and went on with his narrative.

The master and his unknown mistress loved one another so strongly that

they became utterly inseparable. Ivan could clearly see for himself the two

basement rooms, where it was always twilight from the shade of the lilac

bush and the fence : the shabby red furniture, the bureau, the clock on top

of it which struck the half-hours and books, books from the painted floor to

the smoke-blackened ceiling, and the stove.

Ivan learned that from the very first days of their affair the man and

his mistress decided that fate had brought them together on the corner of

the Tverskaya and that side-street and that they were made for each other to

eternity.

Ivan heard his visitor describe how the lovers spent their day. Her

first action on arrival was to put on an apron and light an oil stove on a

wooden table in the cramped hall, with its tap and sink that the wretched

patient had recalled with such pride. There she cooked lunch and served it

on an oval table in the living-room. When the May storms blew and the water

slashed noisily past the dim little windows, threatening to flood their

home, the lovers stoked up the stove and baked potatoes in it. Steam poured

out of the potatoes as they cut them open, the charred skins blackened their

fingers. There was laughter in the basement, after the rain the trees in the

garden scattered broken branches and white blossom.

When the storms were past and the heat of summer came, the vase was

filled with the long-awaited roses that they both loved so much. The man who

called himself the master worked feverishly at his novel and the book cast

its spell over the unknown woman.

' At times I actually felt jealous of it,' the moonlight visitor

whispered to Ivan.

Running her sharp, pointed fingernails through her hair, she

ceaselessly read and re-read the manuscript, sewing that same black cap as

she did so. Sometimes she would squat down by the lower bookshelves or stand

by the topmost ones and wipe the hundreds of dusty spines. Sensing fame, she

drove him on and started to call him ' the master '. She waited impatiently

for the promised final words about the fifth Procurator of Judaea, reading

out in a loud sing-song random sentences that pleased her and saying that

the novel was her life.

It was finished in August and handed to a typist who transcribed it in

five copies. At last came the moment to leave the secret refuge and enter

the outside world.

' When I emerged into the world clutching my novel, my life came to an

end,' whispered the master. He hung his head and for a long while wagged the

black cap with its embroidered yellow ' M '. He went on with his story but

it grew more disjointed and Ivan could only gather that his visitor had

suffered some disaster.

' It was my first sortie into the literary world, but now that it's all

over and I am ruined for everyone to see, it fills me with horror to think

of it! ' whispered the master solemnly, raising his hand. ' God, what a

shock he gave me! '

' Who? ' murmured Ivan, scarcely audibly, afraid to disturb the

master's inspiration.

' The editor, of course, the editor! Oh yes, he read it. He looked at

me as if I had a swollen face, avoided my eyes and even giggled with

embarrassment. He had smudged and creased the typescript quite

unnecessarily. He asked me questions which I thought were insane. He said

nothing about the substance of the novel but asked me who I was and where I

came from, had I been writing for long, why had nothing been heard of me

before and finally asked what struck me as the most idiotic question of

all--who had given me the idea of writing a novel on such a curious subject?

Eventually I lost patience with him and asked him straight out whether he

was going to print my novel or not. This embarrassed him. He began mumbling

something, then announced that he personally was not competent to decide and

that the other members of the editorial board would have to study the book,

in particular the critics Latunsky and Ariman and the author Mstislav

Lavrovich. He asked me to come back a fortnight later. I did so and was

received by a girl who had developed a permanent squint from having to tell

so many lies.'

' That's Lapshennikova, the editor's secretary,' said Ivan with a

smile, knowing the world that his visitor was describing with such rancour.

' Maybe,' he cut in. ' Anyway, she gave me back my novel thoroughly

tattered and covered in grease-marks. Trying not to look at me, the girl

informed me that the editors had enough material for two years ahead and

therefore the question of printing my novel became, as she put it, "

redundant". What ^Ise do I remember?' murmured the visitor, wiping his

forehead. ' Oh yes, the red blobs spattered all over the title page and the

eyes of my mistress. Yes, I remember those eyes.'

The story grew more and more confused, full of more and more disjointed

remarks that trailed off unfinished. He said something about slanting rain

and despair in their basement home, about going somewhere else. He whispered

urgently that he would never, never blame her, the woman who had urged him

on into the struggle.

After that, as far as Ivan could tell, something strange and sudden

happened. One day he opened a newspaper and saw an article by Ariman,

entitled ' The Enemy Makes a Sortie,' where the critic warned all and sundry

that he, that is to say our hero had tried to drag into print an apologia

for Jesus Christ.

' I remember that! ' cried Ivan. ' But I've forgotten what your name

was.' ' I repeat, let's leave my name out of it, it no longer exists,'

replied the visitor. ' It's not important. A day or two later another

article appeared in a different paper signed by Mstislav Lavrovich, in which

the writer suggested striking and striking hard at all this pilatism and

religiosity which I was trying to drag (that damned word again!) into print.

Stunned by that unheard-of word " pilatism " I opened the third newspaper.

In it were two articles, one by Latunsky, the other signed with the initials

N.E. Believe me, Ariman's and Lavrovich's stuff was a mere joke by

comparison with Latunsky's article. Suffice it to say that it was entitled "

A Militant Old Believer ". I was so absorbed in reading the article about

myself that I did not notice her standing in front of me with a wet umbrella

and a sodden copy of the same newspaper. Her eyes were flashing fire, her

hands cold and trembling. First she rushed to kiss me then she said in a

strangled voice, thumping the table, that she was going to murder Latunsky.'

Embarrassed, Ivan gave a groan but said nothing. ' The joyless autumn

days came,' the visitor went on, ' the appalling failure of my novel seemed

to have withered part of my soul. In fact I no longer had anything to do and

I only lived for my meetings with her. Then something began to happen to me.

God knows what it was; I expect Stravinsky has unravelled it long ago. I

began to suffer from depression and strange forebodings. The articles,

incidentally, did not stop. At first I simply laughed at them, then came the

second stage : amazement. In literally every line of those articles one

could detect a sense of falsity, of unease, in spite of their confident and

threatening tone. I couldn't help feeling--and the conviction grew stronger

the more I read--that the people writing those articles were not saying what

they had really wanted to say and that this was the cause of their fury. And

then came the third stage--fear. Don't misunderstand me, I was not afraid of

the articles ; I was afraid of something else which had nothing to do with

them or with my novel. I started, for instance, to be afraid of the dark. I

was reaching the stage of mental derangement. I felt, especially just before

going to sleep, that some very cold, supple octopus was fastening its

tentacles round my heart. I had to sleep with the light on.

' My beloved had changed too. I told her nothing about the octopus, of

course, but she saw that something was wrong with me. She lost weight, grew

paler, stopped laughing and kept begging me to have that excerpt from the

novel printed. She said I should forget everything and go south to the Black

Sea, paying for the journey with what was left of the hundred thousand

roubles.

' She was very insistent, so to avoid arguing with her (something told

me that I never would go to the Black Sea) I promised to arrange the trip

soon. However, she announced that she would buy me the ticket herself. I

took out all my money, which was about ten thousand roubles, and gave it to

her.

' " Why so much? " she said in surprise.

' I said something about being afraid of burglars and asked her to keep

the money until my departure. She took it, put it in her handbag, began to

kiss me and said that she would rather die than leave me alone in this

condition, but people were expecting her, she had to go but would come back

the next day. She begged me not to be afraid.

' It was twilight, in mid-October. She went. I lay down on my divan and

fell asleep without putting on the light. I was awakened by the feeling that

the octopus was there. Fumbling in the dark I just managed to switch on the

lamp. My watch showed two o'clock in the morning. When I had gone to bed I

had been sickening; when I woke up I was an ill man. I had a sudden feeling

that the autumn murk was about to burst the window-panes, run into the room

and I would drown in it as if it were ink. I had lost control of myself. I

screamed, I wanted to run somewhere, if only to my landlord upstairs.

Wrestling with myself as one struggles with a lunatic, I had just enough

strength to crawl to the stove and re-light it. When I heard it begin to

crackle and the fire-door started rattling in the draught, I felt slightly

better. I rushed into the hall, switched on the light, found a bottle of

white wine and began gulping it down from the bottle. This calmed my fright

a little, at least enough to stop me from running to my landlord. Instead, I

went back to the stove. I opened the fire-door. The heat began to warm my

hands and face and I whispered :

' " Something terrible has happened to me . . . Come, come, please come

. . .! "

' But nobody came. The fire roared in the stove, rain whipped against

the windows. Then I took the heavy typescript copies of the novel and my

handwritten drafts out of the desk drawer and started to burn them. It was

terribly hard to do because paper that has been written over in ink doesn't

burn easily. Breaking my fingernails I tore up the manuscript books, stuffed

them down between the logs and stoked the burning pages with the poker.

Occasionally there was so much ash that it put the flames out, but I

struggled with it until finally the whole novel, resisting fiercely to the

end, was destroyed. Familiar words flickered before me, the yellow crept

inexorably up the pages yet I could still read the words through it. They

only vanished when the paper turned black and I had given it a savage

beating with the poker.

' There was a sound of someone scratching gently at the window. My

heart leaped and thrusting the last manuscript book into the fire I rushed

up the brick steps from the basement to the door that opened on to the yard.

Panting, I reached the door and asked softly:

' " Who's there? "

' And a voice, her voice, answered :

' " It's me . . ."

' I don't remember how I managed the chain and the key. As soon as she

was indoors she fell into my arms, all wet, cheek wet, hair bedraggled,

shivering. I could only say :

' " Is it really you? . . ." then my voice broke off and we ran

downstairs into the flat.

' She took off her coat in the hall and we went straight into the

living-room. Gasping, she pulled the last bundle of paper out of the stove

with her bare hands. The room at once filled with smoke. I stamped out the

flames with my foot and she collapsed on the divan and burst into

convulsive, uncontrollable tears.

' When she was calm again I said :

' " I suddenly felt I hated the novel and I was afraid. I'm sick. I

feel terrible."

' She sat up and said :

' " God how ill you look. Why, why? But I'm going to save you. What's

the matter? "

' I could see her eyes swollen from smoke and weeping, felt her cool

hands smoothing my brow.

' " I shall make you better," she murmured, burying her head in my

shoulder. " You're going to write it again. Why, oh why didn't I keep one

copy myself? "

' She ground her teeth with fury and said something indistinct. Then

with clamped lips she started to collect and sort the burnt sheets of paper.

It was a chapter from somewhere in the middle of the book, I forget which.

She carefully piled up the sheets, wrapped them up into a parcel and tied it

with string. All her movements showed that she was a determined woman who

was in absolute command of herself. She asked for a glass of wine and having

drunk it said calmly :

' " This is how one pays for lying," she said, " and I don't want to go

on lying any more. I would have stayed with you this evening, but I didn't

want to do it like that. I don't want his last memory of me to be that I ran

out on him in the middle of the night. He has never done me any harm ... He

was suddenly called out, there's a fire at his factory. But he'll be back

soon. I'll tell him tomorrow morning, tell him I love someone else and then

come back to you for ever. If you don't want me to do that, tell me."

' " My poor, poor girl," I said to her. " I won't allow you to do it.

It will be hell living with me and I don't want you to perish here as I

shall perish."

' " Is that the only reason? " she asked, putting her eyes close to

mine. ' " That's the only reason."

' She grew terribly excited, hugged me, embraced my neck and said:

' " Then I shall die with you. I shall be here tomorrow morning."

' The last that I remember seeing of her was the patch of light from my

hall and in that patch of light a loose curl of her hair, her beret and her

determined eyes, her dark silhouette in the doorway and a parcel wrapped in

white paper.

' " I'd see you out, but I don't trust myself to come back alone, I'm

afraid."

'" Don't be afraid. Just wait a few hours. I'll be back tomorrow

morning."

' Those were the last words that I heard her say.

' Sshh! ' The patient suddenly interrupted himself and raised Ms

finger. ' It's a restless moonlit night.' He disappeared on to the balcony.

Ivan heard the sound of wheels along the corridor, there was a faint groan

or cry.

When all was quiet again, the visitor came back and reported that a

patient had been put into room No. 120, a man who kept asking for his head

back. Both men relapsed into anxious silence for a while, but soon resumed

their interrupted talk. The visitor had just opened his mouth but the night,

as he had said, was a restless one : voices were heard in the corridor and

the visitor began to whisper into Ivan's ear so softly that only the poet

could hear what he was saying, with the exception of the first sentence :

' A quarter of an hour after she had left me there came a knock at my

window . . .'

The man was obviously very excited by what he was whispering into

Ivan's ear. Now and again a spasm would cross his face. Fear and anger

sparkled in his eyes. The narrator pointed in the direction of the moon,

which had long ago disappeared from the balcony. Only when all the noises

outside had stopped did the visitor move away from Ivan and speak louder :

' Yes, so there I stood, out in my little yard, one night in the middle

of January, wearing the same overcoat but without any buttons now and I was

freezing with cold. Behind me the lilac bush was buried in snowdrifts, below

and in front of me were my feebly lit windows with drawn blinds. I knelt

down to the first of them and listened--a gramophone was playing in my room.

I could hear it but see nothing. After a slight pause I went out of the gate

and into the street. A snowstorm was howling along it. A dog which ran

between my legs frightened me, and to get away from it I crossed to the

other side. Cold and fear, which had become my inseparable companions, had

driven me to desperation. I had nowhere to go and the simplest thing would

have been to throw myself under a tram then and there where my side street

joined the main road. In the distance I could see the approaching tramcars,

looking like ice-encrusted lighted boxes, and hear the fearful scrunch of

their wheels along the frostbound tracks. But the joke, my dear friend, was

that every cell of my body was in the grip of fear. I was as afraid of the

tram as I had been of the dog. I'm the most hopeless case in this building,

I assure you! '

' But you could have let her know, couldn't you?' said Ivan

sympatherically. ' Besides, she had all your money. I suppose she kept it,

did she? '

' Don't worry, of course she kept it. But you obviously don't

understand me. Or rather I have lost the powers of description that I once

had. I don't feel very sorry for her, as she is of no more use to me. Why

should I write to her? She would be faced,' said the visitor gazing

pensively at the night sky, ' by a letter from the madhouse. Can one really

write to anyone from an address like this? ... I--a mental patient? How

could I make her so unhappy? I ... I couldn't do it.'

Ivan could only agree. The poet's silence was eloquent of his sympathy

and compassion for his visitor, who bowed his head in pain at his memories

and said :

' Poor woman ... I can only hope she has forgotten me . . .'

' But you may recover,' said Ivan timidly.

' I am incurable,' said the visitor calmly. ' Even though Stravinsky

says that he will send me back to normal life, I don't believe him. He's a

humane man and he only wants to comfort me. I won't deny, though, that I'm a

great deal better now than I was. Now, where was I? Oh yes. The frost, the

moving tram-cars ... I knew that this clinic had just been opened and I

crossed the whole town on foot to come here. It was madness! I would

probably have frozen to death but for a lucky chance. A lorry had broken

down on the road and I approached the driver. It was four kilometres past

the city limits and to my surprise he took pity on me. He was driving here

and he took me ... The toes of my left foot were frost-bitten, but they

cured them. I've been here four months now. And do you know, I think this is

not at all a bad place. I shouldn't bother to make any great plans for the

future if I were you. I, for example, wanted to travel all over the world.

Well, it seems that I was not fated to have my wish. I shall only see an

insignificant little corner of the globe. I don't think it's necessarily the

best bit, but I repeat, it's not so bad. Summer's on the way and the balcony

will be covered in ivy, so Praskovya Fyodorovna tells me. These keys have

enlarged my radius of action. There'll be a moon at night. Oh, it has set!

It's freshening. Midnight is on the way. It's time for me to go.'

' Tell me, what happened afterwards with Yeshua and Pilate? ' begged

Ivan. ' Please, I want to know.'

' Oh no, I couldn't,' replied the visitor, wincing painfully. ' I can't

think about my novel without shuddering. Your friend from Patriarch's Ponds

could have done it better than I can. Thanks for the talk. Goodbye.'

Before Ivan had time to notice it, the grille had shut with a gentle

click and the visitor was gone.


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