and  that  my normal  appearance be  restored  to  me!'  the  hog
suddenly grunted hoarsely, somewhere between frenzy  and supplication.  'I'm
not going to fly  to any illegal gathering!  Margarita Nikolaevna, it's your
duty to call your housekeeper to order!'
     'Ah, so  now I'm a housekeeper? A housekeeper?' Natasha cried, pinching
the hog's ear. 'And I used to be a goddess? What was it you called me?'
     'Venus!'  the hog  replied tearfully, as he flew  over a brook bubbling
between stones, his little hoofs brushing the hazel bushes.
     'Venus! Venus!' Natasha  cried triumphantly, one hand  on her  hip, the
other stretched out towards the moon. 'Margarita! Queen! Intercede for me so
that I can stay a witch! They'll do anything  for you, you have been granted
power!'
     And Margarita responded:
     'All right, I promise.'
     Thank  you!' exclaimed Natasha, and suddenly she cried out  sharply and
somehow longingly: 'Hey! Hey! Faster! Faster! Come on, speed it up''
     She dug her heels  into the hog's sides, which had grown thinner during
this insane ride, and he tore  on, so that the  air ripped open again, and a
moment later  Natasha could be seen only as  a black speck in the  distance,
then vanished completely, and the noise of her flight melted away.
     Margarita flew as slowly  as before through the deserted and unfamiliar
place, over hills strewn with occasional  boulders among huge, widely spaced
pines.  Margarita now flew not over the tops of the pines but  between their
trunks, silvered on one side by the moon.
     The light shadow of the flying woman glided over the ground ahead,  the
moon shining now on Margarita's back.
     Margarita sensed the proximity of water,  and guessed that her goal was
near. The pines  parted and Margarita rode slowly through  the  air  up to a
chalk cliff. Beyond this cliff, down in the shadows, lay a river. Mist  hung
clinging to the bushes on the cliff, but the opposite bank was flat and low.
     On it, under a  solitary group of  spreading  trees,  the  light  of  a
bonfire flickered  and  some  small figures could be  seen moving about.  It
seemed to  Margarita that some nagging,  merry  little tune was coming  from
there.
     Further  off, as far as  the  eye  could  see, there  was  no  sign  of
habitation or people on the silvered plain.
     Margarita leaped off the cliff and quickly descended  to the water. The
water enticed her  after her airy race. Casting the broom aside, she ran and
threw herself head first  into the water. Her light body pierced the water's
surface like an arrow, and the  column of water thrown up almost reached the
moon. The water turned out to be warm as in a bathhouse,  and, emerging from
the depths,  Margarita swam  her fill in the total solitude of night in this
river.
     There was no one near Margarita, but a little  further away, behind the
bushes, splashing  and grunting could  be heard -  someone was also having a
swim there.
     Margarita ran out on to the bank. Her body was on fire after the swim.
     She felt  no fatigue,  and  was joyfully  capering about  on  the moist
grass.
     Suddenly she stopped dancing and pricked up her ears. The grunting came
closer, and from behind the willow bushes some naked fat man emerged, with a
black silk top hat pushed back on his head. His feet were covered with slimy
mud, which made it seem that the swimmer was wearing black shoes. Judging by
his huffing  and  hiccuping,  he  was  properly  drunk,  as  was  confirmed,
incidentally, by the fact that the river suddenly began to smell of cognac.
     Seeing Margarita, the fat man peered at her and then shouted joyfully:
     `What's  this? Who is  it  I see?  Claudine, it's  you, the  ungrieving
widow! You're  here, too?' and he  came at her with his greetings. Margarita
stepped back and replied with dignity:
     'Go  to the devil! What sort of  Claudine  am I  to you? Watch out  who
you're talking to,' and, after a moment's reflection, she added to her words
a long, unprintable oath. All this had a sobering effect on the light-minded
fat man.
     'Ah!' he exclaimed softly and gave a start, `magnanimously  forgive me,
bright Queen  Margot! I mistook you for someone else. The cognac's to blame,
curse it!' The fat man lowered himself to one knee,  holding the top hat far
out, made a bow, and started to prattle, mixing Russian phrases with French,
some nonsense about the  bloody wedding of his friend Guessard in Paris, and
about the cognac, and about being mortified by his sad mistake.
     `Why don't you  put your trousers  on, you  son of  a bitch,' Margarita
said, softening.
     The fat man grinned joyfully, seeing that Margarita was  not angry, and
rapturously declared that he  found himself  without trousers at  the  given
moment only because in his absent-mindedness he had left them on the Yenisey
River, where he had been swimming just before,  but that he  would presently
fly  there, since it was close at hand,  and then, entrusting himself to her
favour and patronage, he began  to back away and went on backing  away until
he slipped and fell  backwards into the water. But even as he fell, he  kept
on his face, framed in small side-whiskers, a smile of rapture and devotion.
     Here  Margarita  gave a piercing whistle and, mounting  the broom  that
flew up to her, crossed to the opposite bank of the fiver. The shadow of the
chalk mountain did not reach that far, and the  whole bank was  flooded with
moonlight.
     As soon as Margarita touched the moist grass, the music under the pussy
willows struck  up louder,  and a sheaf of sparks flew up more  merrily from
the bonfire.  Under  the pussy-willow branches, strewn with  tender,  fluffy
catkins, visible in the moonlight, sat two rows of  fat-faced frogs, puffing
up as if they were made of rubber, playing a bravura march on wooden pipes.
     Glowing marsh-lights  hung on willow twigs in  front of the  musicians,
lighting  up  the music; the restless light  of  the bonfire danced  on  the
frogs' faces.
     The march was being played in honour of Margarita. She was given a most
solemn  reception.  Transparent naiads  stopped their round  dance over  the
river and waved weeds  at Margarita,  and their far-audible greetings moaned
across the deserted, greenish bank. Naked witches, jumping from  behind  the
pussy willows, formed a line and began curtseying and making courtly bows.
     Someone  goat-legged flew up and bent  to her hand, spread  silk on the
grass, inquired  whether the queen had had  a good swim, and  invited her to
lie down and rest.
     Margarita  did just  that.  The goat-legged one offered her  a glass of
champagne, she drank it, and her heart became warm  at once. Having inquired
about Natasha's whereabouts, she received the reply that Natasha had already
taken her swim  and had flown ahead  to Moscow on her hog, to warn them that
Margarita would soon arrive and to help prepare her attire.
     Margarita's  short  stay under  the  pussy willows was  marked  by  one
episode: there  was a whistling in  the  air,  and  a  black body, obviously
missing  its mark, dropped  into the water. A few moments later there  stood
before  Margarita that  same fat  side-whiskerist who  had so unsuccessfully
introduced himself on  the other bank.  He had  apparently managed to get to
the Yenisey and back, for he was in full evening dress, though wet from head
to foot. The cognac had  done  him  another  bad  turn: as he came down,  he
landed in the water  after all. But he did not lose  his smile even  on this
lamentable occasion, and the laughing Margarita admitted him to her hand.
     Then they all started getting ready. The naiads finished their dance in
the moonlight and melted into it. The goat-legged one deferentially inquired
of  Margarita how she  had come to me river. On learning that she  had  come
riding on a broom, he said:
     'Oh, but why, it's so inconvenient!' He instantly slapped together some
dubious-looking telephone from two twigs, and demanded of someone that a car
be  sent that very minute,  which, that same minute,  was actually  done. An
open, light sorrel car  came down on the  island, only in the driver's  seat
there sat  no ordinary-looking  driver, but a black, long-beaked rook in  an
oilcloth cap  and gauntlets. The little island was  becoming  deserted.  The
witches flew off,  melting into the moon-blaze. The  bonfire was dying down,
and the coals were covering over with hoary ash.
     The goat-legged  one helped Margarita in,  and she sank  on to the wide
back seat of the  sorrel car. The car roared, sprang up, and  climbed almost
to the moon; the  island vanished,  the river vanished, Margarita was racing
to Moscow.


        CHAPTER 22. By Candlelight


     The steady  humming  of the car, flying high above  the  earth,  lulled
Margarita, and the  moonlight warmed her pleasantly. Closing her  eyes,  she
offered  her  face  to the wind and thought with a certain sadness about the
unknown river bank she had left behind, which she sensed she would never see
again. After  all  the  sorceries and wonders  of  that evening,  she  could
already guess precisely whom she was being taken to visit, but  that did not
frighten her. The hope that  there she would manage to regain  her happiness
made her fearless. However, she was not to dream of this happiness for  long
in the car. Either  the rook knew his job well, or  the car was a good  one,
but  Margarita  soon opened her eyes  and  saw beneath  her  not the  forest
darkness,  but  a  quivering  sea of Moscow  lights.  The  black bird-driver
unscrewed  the right  front wheel  in flight, then landed  the car  in  some
completely deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilovo area.
     Having deposited the unquestioning Margarita by one of the graves along
with her broom, the rook started the car, aiming it straight into the ravine
beyond the cemetery. It tumbled noisily into it and there perished. The rook
saluted deferentially, mounted the wheel, and flew off.
     A black  cloak appeared at once from behind  one of the  tombstones.  A
fang flashed  in  the  moonlight,  and  Margarita  recognized  Azazello.  He
gestured to Margarita, inviting her to get on the broom, jumped on to a long
rapier himself, they both whirled  up  and in a  few  seconds,  unnoticed by
anyone, landed near no. 302-bis on Sadovaya Street.
     When the companions passed through the gateway,  carrying the broom and
rapier under their arms, Margarita noticed a man languishing there  in a cap
and high boots, probably  waiting for  someone. Light  though Azazello's and
Margarita's  footsteps  were,  the  solitary  man  heard  them and  twitched
uneasily, not understanding who had produced them.
     By the sixth entrance they met a second man  looking surprisingly  like
the first. And again the same story repeated itself. Footsteps  ...  the man
turned  and frowned uneasily. And when the door opened and closed, he dashed
after the invisible enterers, peeked  into the front hall, but of course saw
nothing.
     A  third man, the exact copy of the  second,  and therefore also of the
first, stood watch on the  third-floor landing. He smoked strong cigarettes,
and Margarita  had a fit of coughing as she walked past him. The  smoker, as
if  pricked with a pin, jumped up from  the bench he was  sitting  on, began
turning around  uneasily, went to  the banister,  looked down. Margarita and
her companion were by that time already at the door of apartment no.50. They
did not ring  the bell. Azazello  noiselessly opened the  door with his  own
key.
     The  first thing that  struck Margarita  was the darkness in which  she
found  herself.  It  was as  dark as underground, so that  she involuntarily
clutched at Azazello's cloak for  fear of stumbling. But then, from far away
and above, the light of some little lamp flickered and began to approach.
     Azazello took the broom from under Margarita's arm as they walked,  and
it disappeared without a sound in the darkness.
     Here  they  started climbing  some wide steps,  and Margarita  began to
think there would be no end to them. She was struck that  the  front hall of
an ordinary Moscow apartment could contain this extraordinary invisible, yet
quite  palpable,  endless  stairway. But  the  climb  ended,  and  Margarita
realized  that she was on a  landing. The light  came right up to  them, and
Margarita saw in this light the  face  of a  man,  long and black, holding a
little lamp in his hand. Those who in recent days had been so unfortunate as
to cross paths  with  him, would certainly have recognized him  even  by the
faint tongue of flame from the lamp. It was Koroviev, alias Fagott.
     True, Koroviev's appearance was quite changed. The flickering light was
reflected not in the cracked pince-nez, which it had long been time to throw
in the trash,  but in a  monocle, which, true, was also cracked. The  little
moustache  on his insolent face  was  twirled up  and waxed,  and Koroviev's
blackness  was quite simply  explained - he  was in formal attire.  Only his
chest was white.
     The magician, choirmaster, sorcerer, interpreter -  devil knows what he
really was - Koroviev, in short, made his  bows  and, with a broad  sweep of
the lamp in the air, invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello disappeared.
     'An amazingly strange evening,' thought Margarita, 'I expected anything
but this. Has their  electricity gone off, or  what?  But  the most striking
thing is the size of the place... How could it all be squeezed into a Moscow
apartment? There's simply no way it could be! ...'
     However little light Koroviev's lamp  gave out, Margarita realized that
she was in  an absolutely enormous hall, with  a colonnade besides, dark and
on first impression endless. Koroviev stopped by some sort of little settee,
placed  his lamp on some sort of post,  gestured  for Margarita to sit down,
and settled  himself beside her in a picturesque attitude, leaning his elbow
on the post.
     'Allow me to introduce myself to you,' creaked Koroviev, 'Koroviev. You
are surprised there's no  light? Economy,  so you think, of course? Unh-unh!
May the  first executioner to come along, even  one of those who later  this
evening will have the honour of kissing your knee,  lop  my head off on this
very post if it's so! Messire simply doesn't like electric light, and  we'll
save it for the very last moment. And  then, believe me, there'll be no lack
of it. Perhaps it would even be better to have less.'
     Margarita  liked  Koroviev, and his  rattling chatter  had  a  soothing
effect on her.
     'No,' replied Margarita, 'most of all I'm struck  that there's room for
all this.' She made a gesture with her hand, emphasizing the enormousness of
the hall.
     Koroviev grinned sweetly, which made  the shadows stir  in the folds of
his nose.
     `The  most uncomplicated thing of  all!' he replied. 'For  someone well
acquainted with the fifth dimension, it costs nothing to expand space to the
desired  proportions.  I'll say  more, respected lady -  to devil knows what
proportions!  I,  however,' Koroviev  went on chattering, "have known people
who had no idea, not only of the fifth dimension, but generally  of anything
at  all, and who nevertheless performed absolute wonders in  expanding their
space.  Thus,  for  instance,  one city-dweller,  as I've  been told, having
obtained a three-room apartment  on Zemlyanoy Val, transformed it instantly,
without any fifth dimension  or other  things  that addle the  brain, into a
four-room apartment by dividing one room in half with a partition.
     `He  forthwith  exchanged  that  one  for  two separate  apartments  in
different parts of  Moscow: one of three rooms, the  other of two.  You must
agree that that makes five. The three-room one he exchanged for two separate
ones,  each of two rooms, and became the owner, as you can see for yourself,
of six rooms - true,  scattered in total disorder  all  over Moscow.  He was
just  getting  ready  to  perform his  last  and  most  brilliant  leap,  by
advertising  in  the newspapers  that  he  wanted  to exchange six  rooms in
different parts of Moscow for one five-room apartment on Zemlyanoy Val, when
his  activity  ceased for reasons independent of him. He  probably also  has
some sort of room now, only I venture to assure you it is not  in  Moscow. A
real  slicker,  you  see, ma'am,  and  you  keep  talking  about  the  fifth
dimension!'
     Though  she had  never talked  about the fifth  dimension,  and it  was
Koroviev himself who kept talking about it, Margarita laughed gaily, hearing
the story of the adventures of the apartment slicker. Koroviev went on:
     'But to business, to  business,  Margarita  Nikolaevna. You're quite an
intelligent woman, and of course have already guessed who our host is.'
     Margarita's heart thumped, and she nodded.
     Well, and so, ma'am,' Koroviev said, 'and so, we're enemies of any sort
of  reticence and mysteriousness.  Messire  gives one ball  annually. It  is
called the spring ball of the full moon, or the ball of the hundred kings.
     Such  a crowd!  ...'  here  Koroviev  held his cheek  as if  he  had  a
toothache.
     'However, I hope you'll  be convinced of it yourself. Now, Messire is a
bachelor, as you yourself, of course, understand. Yet a hostess is needed,'
     Koroviev spread his arms, 'without a hostess, you must agree ...'
     Margarita listened to  Koroviev, trying not to  miss a single word; she
felt cold under her heart, the hope of happiness made her head spin.
     'The tradition has been established,'  Koroviev said further, 'that the
hostess of the ball must without fail be named Margarita, first, and second,
she  must  be a native  of the  place. And  we,  you will  kindly note,  are
travelling and at the present moment are in Moscow. We found one hundred and
twenty-one Margaritas in  Moscow, and, would you  believe it,' here Koroviev
slapped himself on  the  thigh with despair, 'not one  of them was suitable!
And, at last, by a happy fate ...'
     Koroviev  grinned   expressively,  inclining   his   body,  and   again
Margarita's heart went cold.
     'In short!' Koroviev cried out 'Quite shortly: you won't refuse to take
this responsibility upon yourself?'
     'I won't refuse!' Margarita replied firmly.
     'Done!'  said Koroviev  and, raising  the little  lamp,  added:  Please
follow me.'
     They walked between  the columns and finally  came to  another hall, in
which  for some  reason there  was  a  strong  smell of  lemons,  where some
rustlings  were  heard and something  brushed  against Margarita's head. She
gave a start.
     'Don't be frightened,' Koroviev reassured her sweetly, taking Margarita
under the arm,  'it's Behemoth's contrivances  for the ball, that's all. And
generally  I  will  allow myself the  boldness  of  advising  you, Margarita
Nikolaevna,  never to  be afraid of  anything.  It is unreasonable. The ball
will  be a magnificent  one,  I will not  conceal it  from  you. We will see
persons the scope of whose power in their own time was extremely great. But,
really, once you  think how  microscopically  small their possibilities were
compared to those of him to whose retinue I have the honour of belonging, it
seems ridiculous, and  even, I would say, sad  ...  And, besides, you are of
royal blood yourself.'
     'Why  of royal blood?' Margarita whispered  fearfully, pressing herself
to Koroviev.
     'Ah, my Queen,' Koroviev rattled on playfully, 'questions of blood  are
the  most complicated questions in the  world! And  if we  were  to question
certain  great-grandmothers, especially those who enjoyed  a  reputation  as
shrinking  violets, the  most  astonishing  secrets  would  be uncovered, my
respected Margarita Nikolaevna! I would not be sinning in  the least if,  in
speaking of that, I should make reference to a whimsically shuffled pack  of
cards.  There  are things  in which neither  barriers  of rank nor  even the
borders  between countries have  any validity whatsoever. A hint: one of the
French queens who lived in the sixteenth century would, one must suppose, be
very amazed  if  someone  told her that after all these  years  I  would  be
leading her  lovely  great-great-great-granddaughter  on my arm through  the
ballrooms of Moscow. But we've arrived!'
     Here Koroviev blew out  his lamp  and it vanished from  his hands,  and
Margarita saw lying on  the floor  in front of her a  streak  of light under
some dark  door.  And on this  door Koroviev softly knocked.  Here Margarita
became so agitated that her teeth chattered and a chill ran down her spine.
     The door  opened. The room turned out to be very small. Margarita saw a
wide oak bed with  dirty, rumpled and bunched-up sheets and pillows.  Before
the bed was an oak table with carved legs, on which stood a candelabrum with
sockets in the form of a bird's claws. In  these seven golden claws'  burned
thick wax candles. Besides that, there  was on the table a  large chessboard
with  pieces of extraordinarily artful workmanship. A little low bench stood
on a  small, shabby rug. There was  yet another  table with some golden bowl
and  another candelabrum  with branches  in the  form  of  snakes. The  room
smelled of sulphur and pitch. Shadows  from the  lights criss-crossed on the
floor.
     Among those  present  Margarita immediately  recognized  Azazello,  now
dressed in a tailcoat and  standing at the head of  the bed. The  dressed-up
Azazello no longer resembled  that bandit  in  whose form he had appeared to
Margarita in  the  Alexandrovsky Garden,  and his  bow to Margarita was very
gallant.
     A naked  witch, that same Hella who had so embarrassed the  respectable
barman of  the  Variety, and - alas  - the same who had so fortunately  been
scared off by the cock on the night of the notorious sance, sat on a rug on
the  floor  by  the  bed,  stirring  something in a  pot  which  gave off  a
sulphurous steam.
     Besides these, there was also a huge black tom-cat in the room, sitting
on  a high tabouret before the chess  table, holding a chess knight  in  his
right paw.
     Hella rose  and bowed to Margarita. The  cat, jumping off the tabouret,
did  likewise. Scraping  with his right  hind paw, he dropped the knight and
crawled under the bed after it.
     Margarita,  sinking with fear, nevertheless  made all  this out  by the
perfidious  candlelight. Her  eyes were drawn  to  the  bed, on which sat he
whom, still quite recently, at the Patriarch's Ponds, poor Ivan had tried to
convince that the devil does not exist. It was this non-existent one who was
sitting on the bed.
     Two eyes  were fixed on Margarita's  face. The right one  with a golden
spark at its bottom, drilling anyone to the bottom of his soul, and the left
one empty and black, like the narrow eye  of a needle, like the  entrance to
the bottomless well of all darkness and shadow. Woland's face was twisted to
one side, the  right corner of the mouth drawn down, the high, bald forehead
scored by deep wrinkles running parallel to the sharp eyebrows.  The skin of
Woland's face was as if burned for all eternity by the sun.
     Woland,  broadly sprawled  on the bed, was wearing  nothing but  a long
nightshirt, dirty  and patched on the left shoulder. One bare leg was tucked
under him, the other was stretched out on  the little bench. It was the knee
of this dark leg that Hella was rubbing with some smoking ointment.
     Margarita also  made  out  on Woland's  bared, hairless chest  a beetle
artfully  carved  [2]  from dark  stone, on  a  gold  chain  and  with  some
inscriptions on its back. Beside Woland, on  a heavy stand, stood  a strange
globe, as if alive, lit on one side by the sun.
     The  silence  lasted  a  few  seconds.  'He's   studying  me,'  thought
Margarita, and with an effort of will she tried  to control the trembling in
her legs.
     At last Woland began to speak, smiling, which made his sparkling eye as
if to flare up.
     'Greetings to you, Queen, and I beg you to excuse my homely attire.'
     The voice of Woland was  so low that on some syllables it drew out into
a wheeze.
     Woland took a long sword from the sheets,  leaned down, poked  it under
the bed, and said:
     'Out with you! The game is cancelled. The guest has arrived.'
     'By  no means,' Koroviev anxiously piped, prompter-like, at Margarita's
ear.
     'By no means ...' began Margarita.
     'Messire ...' Koroviev breathed into her ear.
     `By  no  means,  Messire,'  Margarita  replied  softly  but distinctly,
gaining control over herself, and she added with a smile: `I  beg you not to
interrupt your game. I imagine the  chess journals would pay good money  for
the chance to publish it.'
     Azazello gave a low but approving  grunt,  and Woland, looking intently
at Margarita, observed as if to himself:
     'Yes, Koroviev is right.  How whimsically  the deck has been  shuffled!
Blood!'
     He  reached out  and beckoned Margarita to him with his  hand. She went
up, not feeling the floor under her bare feet. Woland placed his hand, heavy
as  if  made of  stone and  at the  same time  hot as  fire, on  Margarita's
shoulder, pulled her towards him, and sat her on the bed by his side.
     `Well,' he said,  `since  you  are  so charmingly  courteous  -  and  I
expected  nothing else - let us not stand on ceremony.' He again leaned over
the side of the  bed  and cried: 'How  long  will this circus  under the bed
continue? Come out, you confounded Hans!'[3]
     'I can't find my knight,'  the  cat responded from  under the bed in  a
muffled and false voice, 'it's ridden off somewhere, and I keep getting some
frog instead.'
     `You don't imagine  you're  at some  fairground, do you?' asked Woland,
pretending  to  be angry. 'There's  no frog under the bed! Leave these cheap
tricks for the Variety.  If you  don't appear  at once, we'll consider  that
you've forfeited, you damned deserter!'
     'Not for anything, Messire!' yelled the cat, and he got  out from under
the bed that same second, holding the knight in his paw.
     'Allow me  to present ...' Woland began and interrupted himself: 'No, I
simply cannot look at  this buffoon. See what he's turned himself into under
the bed!'
     Standing on his hind legs, the dust-covered cat  was  meanwhile  making
his bows to Margarita. There was now a white bow-tie on the cat's  neck, and
a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl  opera glasses  hung  from a strap  on his
neck. What's more, the cat's whiskers were gilded.
     'Well, what's all this  now?' exclaimed Woland.  `Why  have you  gilded
your whiskers? And what the devil  do you need the bow-tie for,  when you're
not even wearing trousers?'
     'A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire,' the cat replied with
great dignity. 'You're not going  to tell me  to wear boots, too,  are  you?
Puss-in-Boots exists  only in fairy  tales, Messire. But  have you ever seen
anyone  at  a  ball without a bow-tie? I  do not  intend to put myself in  a
ridiculous situation  and  risk  being chucked out! Everyone  adorns himself
with what he can. You may consider what  I've said as referring to the opera
glasses as well, Messire!'
     'But the whiskers? ...'
     'I don't understand,' the cat retorted drily. 'Why  could  Azazello and
Koroviev put white powder on  themselves as they were shaving today, and how
is that better than gold? I powdered my whiskers,  that's all! If I'd shaved
myself,  it would be a different matter! A shaved cat - now, that  is indeed
an outrage, I'm prepared to admit  it a thousand times over. But generally,'
here the cat's voice quavered touchily, 'I see I am being made the object of
a certain captiousness, and I see that  a serious problem stands before me -
am I to attend the ball? What have you to say about that, Messire?'
     And the cat got so puffed up with offence that it seemed he would burst
in another second.
     'Ah,  the  cheat, the cheat,' said Woland, shaking his head. 'Each time
his game is  in a hopeless situation,  he  starts addling your pate like the
crudest mountebank on a street corner. Sit down  at once  and  stop slinging
this verbal muck.'
     `I shall sit down,'  replied the cat, sitting down, 'but  I shall enter
an objection with regard to your last. My speeches in no way resemble verbal
muck, as  you have  been pleased to put  it  in the presence of a  lady, but
rather a sequence of tightly packed syllogisms, the merit of which  would be
appreciated by such connoisseurs as Sextus Empiricus, Martianus Capella, [4]
and, for all I know, Aristotle himself.
     'Your king is in check,' said Woland.
     Very  well, very  well,' responded the cat, and  he  began studying the
chessboard through his opera glasses.
     'And so, Donna,'  Woland addressed  Margarita,  `I  present  to  you my
retinue. This  one who is playing the fool is the cat Behemoth. Azazello and
Koroviev  you have already met.  I  present to  you  my maidservant,  Hella:
efficient, quick, and there is no service she cannot render.'
     The beautiful Hella was smiling as she turned her green-tinged eyes  to
Margarita, without ceasing to dip into the ointment and apply it to Woland's
knee.
     'Well,  that's  the  lot,'  Woland concluded, wincing  as Hella pressed
especially  hard on his knee. 'A small, mixed and guileless company, as  you
see.' He fell silent and  began to spin the globe in front of him, which was
so artfully made  that the blue oceans moved on it and  the  cap at the pole
lay like a real cap of ice and snow.
     On the  chessboard, meanwhile, confusion  was  setting in. A thoroughly
upset king  in  a white  mantle was  shuffling  on  his square,  desperately
raising his arms.  Three  white  pawn-mercenaries  with  halberds  gazed  in
perplexity  at  the  bishop  brandishing his crozier and pointing forward to
where, on two  adjacent squares,  white  and black, Woland's  black horsemen
could be seen on two fiery chargers pawing the squares with their hoofs.
     Margarita was extremely interested and  struck  by the  fact  that  the
chessmen were alive.
     The cat,  taking the opera glasses  from  his eyes,  prodded  his  king
lightly in the back. The king covered his face with his hands in despair.
     'Things  aren't so great, my dear Behemoth,' Koroviev said quietly in a
venomous voice.
     `The  situation  is  serious  but  by   no  means  hopeless,'  Behemoth
responded.  'What's more, I'm quite  certain  of  final  victory. Once  I've
analysed the situation properly.'
     He set about this analysing  in a rather strange  manner  -  namely, by
winking and making all sorts of faces at his king. 'Nothing helps,' observed
Koroviev.
     'Aie!'  cried  Behemoth,  `the  parrots  have  flown  away, just  as  I
predicted!'
     Indeed, from somewhere far away came the noise of many wings.  Koroviev
and Azazello rushed out of the room.
     `Devil  take  you  with  your  ball amusements!' Woland grunted without
tearing his eyes from his globe.
     As soon as Koroviev and Azazello disappeared Behemoth's winking took on
greater  dimensions.  The white king  finally understood what was wanted  of
him. He suddenly pulled off his mantle, dropped it on  the  square,  and ran
off  the board. The bishop covered himself with the abandoned royal garb and
took the king's place. Koroviev and Azazello came back.
     'Lies,  as  usual,'  grumbled  Azazello,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at
Behemoth.
     'I thought I heard it,' replied the cat.
     'Well, is this going to continue for long?' asked Woland. 'Your king is
in check.'
     'I must  have heard wrong, my master,' replied the cat. 'My king is not
and cannot be in check.' 'I repeat, your king is in check!'
     `Messire,'  the  cat responded  in  a  falsely alarmed voice,  'you are
overtired. My king is not in check.'
     The king is on square G-5,' said Woland, without looking at the board.
     'Messire, I'm horrified!' howled the cat, showing horror on his mug.
     There is no king on that square!'
     `What's that?'  Woland  asked  in perplexity and began looking  at  the
board, where the bishop standing on the king's square kept  turning away and
hiding behind his hand.
     'Ah, you scoundrel,' Woland said pensively.
     'Messire! Again I appeal to logic!' the cat began, pressing his paws to
his chest. 'If a player announces  that  the king is in check, and meanwhile
there's no trace of the king  on the board, the check must  be recognized as
invalid!'
     'Do you give up or not?' Woland cried in a terrible voice.
     `Let  me think it over,' the cat replied humbly, resting his  elbows on
the  table, putting  his  paws over his ears,  and beginning  to  think.  He
thought for a long time and finally said: 'I give up.'
     The obstinate beast should be killed,' whispered Azazello.
     'Yes,  I give up,'  said the cat, `but I do so only because I am unable
to play  in  an atmosphere  of persecution  on the part of the envious!'  He
stood up and the chessmen climbed into their box.
     'Hella, it's time,' said Woland, and Hella disappeared from the room.
     'My leg hurts, and now this ball ...' he continued.
     'Allow me,' Margarita quietly asked.
     Woland looked at her intently and moved his knee towards her.
     The  liquid, hot as  lava,  burned  her  hands, but Margarita,  without
wincing, and trying not to cause any pain, rubbed it into his knee.
     'My attendants insist it's  rheumatism,' Woland was saying,  not taking
his eyes off Margarita, 'but I strongly  suspect that  this pain  in my knee
was  left me as  a souvenir by  a  charming witch  with  whom I  was closely
acquainted in the year 1571, on Mount Brocken, [5] on the Devil's Podium.'
     'Ah, can that be so!' said Margarita.
     'Nonsense!  In  another  three hundred years it will  all go away! I've
been recommended a host of medications, but I keep to my granny's old  ways.
Amazing herbs  she left  me,  my grandma, that vile old thing! Incidentally,
tell me, are you suffering from  anything? Perhaps you  have  some  sort  of
sorrow or soul-poisoning anguish?'
     'No,  Messire,  none  of that,' replied the clever  Margarita, 'and now
that I'm here with you, I feel myself quite well.'
     'Blood is a great thing  ...' Woland said gaily, with no obvious point,
and added: 'I see you're interested in my globe.'
     'Oh, yes, I've never seen anything like it.'
     `It's a nice little object.  Frankly speaking, I don't  enjoy listening
to the news  on the  radio. It's always reported by some girls who pronounce
the names of places inarticulately. Besides, every third one has some slight
speech defect,  as if  they're chosen on  purpose.  My  globe  is much  more
convenient,  especially since I  need a  precise  knowledge  of  events. For
instance, do you see this chunk of land,  washed on one  side by the  ocean?
Look,  it's filling with fire. A war has started there. If you  look closer,
you'll see the details.'
     Margarita leaned towards the globe  and  saw the  little square of land
spread out, get  painted in many colours, and turn as it  were into a relief
map. And  then she saw  the little ribbon  of a river, and some village near
it. A little house the size of a pea grew and became the size of a matchbox.
     Suddenly and  noiselessly the roof  of  this house flew up along with a
cloud of  black smoke,  and the walls collapsed, so that nothing was left of
the little two-storey box except a  small heap with black smoke pouring from
it.
     Bringing her eye still closer, Margarita made out a small female figure
lying on the ground, and  next to her, in  a pool of blood, a  little  child
with outstretched arms.
     'That's it,' Woland said,  smiling,  'he had no  time to sin. Abaddon's
[6] work is impeccable.'
     'I wouldn't want to be on the side that this Abaddon is  against,' said
Margarita. 'Whose side is he on?'
     The longer I talk with  you,' Woland responded amiably,  'the more  I'm
convinced that  you are very  intelligent. I'll set you  at ease. He is of a
rare  impartiality and  sympathizes equally  with  both  sides of the fight.
Owing to that, the results are always the same for both sides. Abaddon!'
     Woland called in a low voice,  and here there emerged from the wall the
figure of  some gaunt man  in  dark glasses. These glasses  produced  such a
strong impression on Margarita that she cried out softly and hid her face in
Woland's leg. 'Ah, stop it!' cried Woland. `Modern people are so nervous!'
     He swung and  slapped  Margarita on  the back  so that  a ringing  went
through her whole  body. 'Don't you see  he's  got his glasses on?  Besides,
there  has never  yet been,  and  never will  be,  an  occasion when Abaddon
appears before  someone  prematurely. And, finally,  I'm  here. You  are  my
guest! I simply wanted to show him to you.'
     Abaddon stood motionless.
     'And is it possible for him to take off his glasses for a second?'
     Margarita  asked, pressing  herself  to Woland and  shuddering, but now
from curiosity.
     'Ah, no, that's  impossible,' Woland  replied  seriously and waved  his
hand at Abaddon, and he was no more. "What do you wish to say, Azazello?'
     'Messire,' replied Azazello, 'allow me to say - we've got two strangers
here: a beauty who is whimpering and pleading to be allowed to stay with her
lady, and with her, begging your pardon, there is also her hog.'
     'Strange behaviour for a beauty!' observed Woland.
     'It's Natasha, Natasha!' exclaimed Margarita.
     'Well, let her stay with her lady. And the hog - to the cooks.'
     `To  slaughter  him?'  Margarita  cried fearfully.  `For  pity's  sake,
Messire,  it's  Nikolai  Ivanovich,   the   ground-floor  tenant.   It's   a
misunderstanding, you see, she daubed him with the cream...'
     'But wait,' said Woland, 'why the devil would anyone slaughter him? Let
him  stay with the cooks,  that's all. You must agree, I cannot let him into
the ballroom.'
     'No, really...' Azazello added and announced: `Midnight is approaching,
Messire.'
     'Ah, very good.' Woland turned to Margarita: 'And so,  if you please...
I  thank  you beforehand.  Don't  become  flustered and  don't  be afraid of
anything. Drink nothing but  water, otherwise you'll get groggy and it  will
be hard for you. It's time!'
     Margarita got  up  from  the  rug, and then  Koroviev  appeared in  the
doorway.

        CHAPTER 23. The Great Ball at Satan's


     Midnight  was approaching; they had to hurry. Margarita dimly perceived
her surroundings. Candles and a jewelled pool remained in her memory. As she
stood in  the bottom of  this pool, Hella, with the assistance  of  Natasha,
doused her with some hot, thick and red liquid. Margarita felt a salty taste
on her  lips  and realized that she  was being washed in blood.  The  bloody
mantle  was  changed  for  another  -  thick,  transparent,  pinkish  -  and
Margarita's head began to spin from rose  oil. Then Margarita  was laid on a
crystal couch and rubbed with some big green leaves until she shone.
     Here  the  cat  burst in  and  started to  help. He  squatted  down  at
Margarita's feet  and  began rubbing up her  soles with the  air of  someone
shining shoes in the street.
     Margarita does not remember who  stitched  slippers for her  from  pale
rose petals  or  how these slippers  got fastened  by themselves with golden
clasps. Some force snatched Margarita up and put her before a  mirror, and a
royal  diamond crown gleamed  in her  hair. Koroviev appeared from somewhere
and  hung a heavy, oval-framed picture of a black poodle by a heavy chain on
Margarita's breast.  This adornment  was extremely burdensome  to the queen.
The chain at once began to chafe her neck,  the picture pulled her down. But
something compensated Margarita  for the inconveniences that the  chain with
the black poodle caused  her, and this was the deference with which Koroviev
and Behemoth began to treat her.
     'Never mind, never mind,  never mind!' muttered Koroviev at the door of
the  room with the pool. 'No help for it, you must, must, must...  Allow me,
Queen,  to give you a last piece  of  advice. Among the guests there will be
different  sorts, oh, very different, but no  one, Queen  Margot,  should be
shown any preference! Even if you  don't like  someone ... I understand that
you will not, of course, show it on your face - no, no, it's unthinkable!
     He'll notice  it,  he'll notice it instantly! You  must love  him, love
him, Queen! The mistress  of the ball  will be rewarded  a  hundredfold  for
that. And also - don't ignore anyone! At least a little smile, if there's no
time to drop  a  word, at least  a tiny turn of the head! Anything