Chapter 28 from the novel The Master and Margarita. Essay “Analysis of the episode “The Last Adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth” in the novel “The Master and Margarita”

Whether these silhouettes existed or whether they were just imagined by the fear-stricken residents of the ill-fated house on Sadovaya, of course, cannot be said with certainty. If they were, where they went directly, no one knows either. We also cannot say where they separated, but we know that about a quarter of an hour after the fire started on Sadovaya, a tall citizen in a checkered suit and with him a large black cat appeared at the mirrored doors of Torgsin on the Smolensk market.

Deftly weaving among the passers-by, the citizen opened the outer door of the store. But then a small, bony and extremely unfriendly doorman blocked his way and said irritably:

Cats are not allowed.

“I’m sorry,” the tall one rattled and put his gnarled hand to his ear, like someone who was hard of hearing, “with cats, are you talking?” Where do you see the cat?

The doorman's eyes bulged, and there was a reason: there was no longer a cat at the citizen's feet, and instead, from behind his shoulder, a fat man in a torn cap was already poking out and rushing into the store, his face actually looking a little like a cat. The fat man had a primus stove in his hands.

For some reason the misanthrope doorman did not like this couple of visitors.

“We only have currency,” he wheezed, looking irritably from under his shaggy, moth-eaten gray eyebrows.

My dear,” the tall one rattled, his eye sparkling from his broken pince-nez, “how do you know that I don’t have it?” Do you judge by the suit? Never do this, most precious guardian! You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that. At least re-read the story of the famous caliph Harun al-Rashid. But in this case, putting this story aside temporarily, I want to tell you that I will complain about you to the manager and tell him such things about you that you would not have to leave your post between the sparkling mirrored doors.

“I may have a full Primus of currency,” the cat-shaped fat man, who was rushing into the store, passionately butted into the conversation. The audience was already pressing and angry from behind. Looking at the outlandish couple with hatred and doubt, the doorman stepped aside, and our acquaintances, Koroviev and Behemoth, found themselves in the store.

Here they first looked around, and then in a ringing voice, heard in all corners, Koroviev announced:

Wonderful store! Very, very good store!

The audience turned around from the counters and for some reason looked in amazement at the speaker, although he had every reason to praise the store.

Hundreds of pieces of chintz of the richest colors were visible in the shelf cages. Behind them were piled calicoes and chiffons and tailor-made cloth. Whole stacks of boxes with shoes stretched into the perspective, and several civilian women sat on low chairs, their right foot in an old, shabby shoe, and their left foot in a new sparkling pump, which they stomped anxiously into the rug. Somewhere in the depths around the corner they were singing and playing gramophones.

But, bypassing all these delights, Koroviev and Behemoth headed straight to the junction of the gastronomic and confectionery departments. It was very spacious here; citizens in headscarves and berets did not press against the counters, as in the chintz department.

A short, completely square man, blue-shaven, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a brand new hat, not wrinkled and without streaks on the ribbon, in a lilac coat and red kid gloves, stood at the counter and hummed something imperiously. A salesman in a clean white robe and a blue cap was serving a lilac client. With a very sharp knife, very similar to the knife stolen by Levi Matvey, he removed from the fat, weeping pink salmon its snake-like skin with a silvery tint.

And this department is magnificent,” Koroviev solemnly admitted, “and the foreigner is handsome,” he benevolently pointed his finger at the lilac back.

No, Bassoon, no,” Behemoth answered thoughtfully, “you, my friend, are mistaken.” There is something missing in the face of the lilac gentleman, in my opinion.

The lilac back trembled, but probably by accident, for the foreigner could not understand what Koroviev and his companion were saying in Russian.

Karoshi? - the lilac buyer asked sternly.

Worldwide,” answered the seller, coquettishly picking under the skin with the tip of a knife.

I love Karoshi, but I don’t like the bad one,” the foreigner said sternly.

Why! - the seller answered enthusiastically.

Here our friends moved away from the foreigner with his salmon to the edge of the pastry counter.

“It’s hot today,” Koroviev turned to the young, red-cheeked saleswoman and did not receive any answer from her. - How much are tangerines? - Koroviev asked her then.

“Thirty kopecks a kilo,” answered the saleswoman.

“Everything bites,” Koroviev remarked with a sigh, “eh, eh...” He thought a little more and invited his companion: “Eat, Behemoth.”

The fat man took his primus stove under his arm, took possession of the top tangerine in the pyramid and, immediately devouring it with its skin, began to grab the second one.

The saleswoman was seized with mortal horror.

Are you crazy? - she cried, losing her blush, - hand over the check! Check! - and she dropped the candy tongs.

Darling, darling, beauty,” Koroviev hissed, rolling over the counter and winking at the saleswoman, “we’re not in the money today... well, what can you do!” But, I swear to you, next time, and certainly no later than Monday, we will give everything back clean. We are not far from here, on Sadovaya, where the fire is.

The hippopotamus, having swallowed the third tangerine, stuck its paw into a cunning structure of chocolate bars, pulled out one of the bottom ones, which, of course, caused everything to collapse, and swallowed it along with the golden wrapper.

The sellers behind the fish counter were petrified with their knives in their hands, the lilac foreigner turned to the robbers, and it was immediately discovered that Behemoth was wrong: the lilac one was not missing something in his face, but, on the contrary, there was rather something extra - hanging cheeks and shifting eyes.

Having turned completely yellow, the saleswoman sadly shouted to the whole store:

Palosic! Palosic!

The audience from the calico department began to flock to this cry, and Behemoth moved away from the confectionery temptations and put his paw into a barrel with the inscription: “Kerch selected herring,” pulled out a couple of herrings and swallowed them, spitting out the tails.

Palosic! - the desperate cry was repeated behind the confectionery counter, and behind the fish counter a salesman in a goatee barked:

What are you doing, you bastard?!

Pavel Iosifovich was already hurrying to the scene of action. He was a respectable man in a clean white coat, like a surgeon, and with a pencil sticking out of his pocket. Pavel Iosifovich, apparently, was an experienced person. Seeing the tail of the third herring in Behemoth’s mouth, he instantly assessed the situation, decisively understood everything and, without entering into any arguments with the impudent people, waved his hand into the distance, commanding:

A doorman flew out of the mirrored doors at the corner of Smolensky and began to let out an ominous whistle. The public began to surround the scoundrels, and then Koroviev entered into action.

Citizens! - he shouted in a vibrating thin voice, - what is this being done? Ass? Let me ask you about this! Poor man,” Koroviev let his voice tremble and pointed to Behemoth, who immediately put on a tearful face, “the poor man spends the whole day repairing the primus stove; he's hungry... but where can he get the currency?

Pavel Iosifovich, usually reserved and calm, shouted at this sternly:

Give it up! - and waved into the distance impatiently. Then the trills at the doors began to sound more cheerful.

But Koroviev, not embarrassed by Pavel Iosifovich’s speech, continued:

Where? - I ask everyone a question! He is exhausted with hunger and thirst! He's feeling hot. Well, the poor man took a tangerine to try. And the whole price of this tangerine is three kopecks. And now they are whistling like nightingales in the forest in spring, disturbing the police, distracting them from their work. Can he? A? - and then Koroviev pointed to the lilac fat man, causing the strongest anxiety to appear on his face, - who is he? A? Where did he come from? For what? Are we bored without him? Did we invite him, or what? Of course,” the former regent yelled at the top of his voice, sarcastically twisting his mouth, “he, you see, is in a formal lilac suit, he’s all swollen from salmon, he’s all stuffed with currency, but for ours, for ours?! I'm sad! Bitterly! Bitterly! - Koroviev howled, like the best man at an ancient wedding.

This whole stupid, tactless and probably politically harmful thing made Pavel Iosifovich shudder angrily, but, strangely enough, it was clear from the eyes of the crowded audience that it aroused sympathy in so many people! And when Behemoth, holding his dirty, torn sleeve to his eye, exclaimed tragically:

Thank you, faithful friend, you stood up for the victim! - a miracle happened. A most decent, quiet old man, dressed poorly but cleanly, the old man, who was buying three almond cakes in the confectionery department, suddenly changed. His eyes sparkled with battle fire, he turned purple, threw the bag of cakes on the floor and shouted:

Is it true! - in a childish thin voice. Then he grabbed a tray, throwing off the remains of the chocolate Eiffel Tower destroyed by Hippo, waved it, tore off the foreigner’s hat with his left hand, and with his right hand hit the foreigner’s bald head with the flat of the tray. There was a sound like the sound that happens when sheet metal is thrown onto the ground from a truck. The fat man, turning white, fell on his back and sat down in a tub of Kerch herring, knocking out a fountain of herring brine. Immediately the second miracle happened. Lilac, having fallen into the tub, cried out in pure Russian, without signs of any accent:

They are killing! The police! Bandits are killing me! - apparently as a result of shock, suddenly mastering a hitherto unknown language.

Then the doorman's whistle stopped, and in the crowds of excited shoppers, two police helmets flashed closer. But the insidious Behemoth, like a gang dousing a shop in a bathhouse, doused the confectionery counter with gasoline from a primus stove, and it burst into flames on its own. The flames shot upward and ran along the counter, devouring the beautiful paper ribbons on the fruit baskets. The saleswomen started running from behind the counter, screaming, and as soon as they jumped out from behind it, the linen curtains on the windows burst into flames and gasoline caught fire on the floor. The audience, immediately raising a desperate cry, rushed back from the confectionery, crushing the no longer needed Pavel Iosifovich, and from behind the fish, the sellers ran in single file with their sharpened knives at a trot to the back door. The lilac citizen, having torn himself out of the tub, covered in herring slurry, rolled over the salmon on the counter and followed them. The glass in the exit mirrored doors rang and fell, squeezed out by the people fleeing, and both scoundrels - Koroviev and the glutton Behemoth - disappeared somewhere, but where it was impossible to understand. Later, eyewitnesses who were present at the start of the fire in Torgsin on Smolensky said that it was as if both hooligans flew up to the ceiling and both seemed to burst there, like children’s balloons. It is, of course, doubtful that this is exactly the case, but what we don’t know, we don’t know.

But we know that exactly a minute after the incident on Smolensky, both Behemoth and Koroviev were already on the sidewalk of the boulevard, just opposite the house of Griboyedov’s aunt. Koroviev stopped at the bars and spoke:

Bah! Why, this is a writers' house. You know, Behemoth, I’ve heard a lot of good and flattering things about this house. Pay attention, my friend, to this house! It’s nice to think that under this roof a whole abyss of talent is hiding and ripening.

“Like pineapples in greenhouses,” said Behemoth, and, in order to better admire the cream-colored house with columns, he climbed onto the concrete base of the cast-iron grate.

“That’s absolutely right,” Koroviev agreed with his inseparable companion, “and a sweet horror comes to the heart when you think that in this house the future author of “Don Quixote” or “Faust” or, damn me, “The Dead” is now keeping up. shower"! A?

“It’s scary to think,” confirmed Behemoth.

Yes,” continued Koroviev, “amazing things can be expected in the greenhouses of this house, which united under its roof several thousand ascetics who decided to selflessly give their lives to the service of Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia. Can you imagine what a fuss will arise when one of them first presents the reading public with “The Inspector General” or, at worst, “Eugene Onegin”!

And it’s very simple,” Behemoth again confirmed.

Yes,” Koroviev continued and raised his finger in concern, “but! But, I say and repeat it - but! If some microorganism does not attack these delicate greenhouse plants, it will not undermine them at the roots, if they do not rot! And this happens with pineapples! Oh-oh-oh, how it happens!

By the way,” inquired Hippopotamus, sticking his round head through the hole in the bars, “what are they doing on the veranda?”

“They’re having lunch,” Koroviev explained. “I’ll add to this, my dear, that this is a very good and inexpensive restaurant.” Meanwhile, like any tourist before further travel, I feel the urge to have a snack and drink a big, ice-cold mug of beer.

“Me too,” answered Behemoth, and both scoundrels walked along the asphalt path under the linden trees straight to the veranda of the restaurant, which did not sense trouble.

A pale and bored citizen in white socks and a white beret with a ponytail sat on a Viennese chair at the entrance to the veranda from the corner, where the entrance hole was built in the green trellis. In front of her, on a simple kitchen table, lay a thick office-type book, in which the citizen, for unknown reasons, recorded those entering the restaurant. It was this citizen who stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.

Your credentials? - She looked with surprise at Koroviev’s pince-nez, as well as at Behemoth’s primus stove, and at Behemoth’s torn elbow.

I offer you a thousand apologies, what kind of identification? - Koroviev asked, surprised.

Are you writers? - the citizen asked in turn.

“Of course,” Koroviev answered with dignity.

Your credentials? - the citizen repeated.

My beauty... - Koroviev began tenderly.

“I’m not a charm,” the citizen interrupted him.

“Oh, what a pity,” Koroviev said disappointedly and continued: “Well, if you don’t want to be a charm, which would be very pleasant, you don’t have to be one.” So, to make sure that Dostoevsky is a writer, is it really necessary to ask him for his identification? Yes, take any five pages from any of his novels, and without any identification you will be convinced that you are dealing with a writer. Yes, I believe that he didn’t even have any identification! How do you think? - Koroviev turned to Behemoth.

I bet it wasn’t,” he answered, putting the Primus stove on the table next to the book and wiping the sweat on his sooty forehead with his hand.

“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.

Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.

Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently.

“I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. - Dostoevsky is immortal!

Your certificates, citizens,” said the citizen.

For pity’s sake, this is, after all, ridiculous,” Koroviev did not give up, “a writer is not determined by his certificate, but by what he writes!” How do you know what plans are swarming in my head? Or in this head? - and he pointed to the head of Behemoth, from which he immediately took off his cap, as if so that the citizen could examine it better.

Let us in, citizens,” she said, already nervous.

Koroviev and Behemoth stood aside and let through some writer in a gray suit, a summer white shirt without a tie, the collar of which lay wide on the collar of his jacket, and with a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded affably to the citizen, as he walked, he wrote some kind of squiggle in the book presented to him and proceeded to the veranda.

Alas, not for us, not for us,” Koroviev spoke sadly, “but he will get this ice-cold mug of beer, which we, poor wanderers, dreamed of so much with you, our situation is sad and difficult, and I don’t know what to do.”

The hippopotamus just threw up his hands bitterly and put his cap on his round, overgrown head. thick hair, very similar to cat fur. And at that moment, a quiet but authoritative voice sounded above the citizen’s head:

Let me in, Sofya Pavlovna.

The citizen with the book was amazed; in the green trellis appeared the white tailcoat chest and wedge-shaped beard of the filibuster. He looked friendly at the two dubious ragamuffins and, even more than that, made inviting gestures to them. The authority of Archibald Archibaldovich was a thing that was seriously felt in the restaurant that he was in charge of, and Sofya Pavlovna humbly asked Koroviev:

What's your last name?

Panaev,” he answered politely. The citizen wrote down this name and raised a questioning glance at Behemoth.

Skabichevsky,” he squeaked, for some reason pointing to his primus stove. Sofya Pavlovna wrote this down too and pushed the book towards the visitors so that they could sign it. Koroviev wrote “Skabichevsky” against Panaev, and Behemoth wrote “Panaev” against Skabichevsky. Archibald Archibaldovich, completely astonishing Sofya Pavlovna, smiling seductively, led the guests to the best table at the opposite end of the veranda, to where the thickest shadow lay, to a table near which the sun was playing merrily in one of the slots in the trellis greenery. Sofya Pavlovna, blinking in amazement, studied for a long time the strange entries made in the book by unexpected visitors.

Archibald Archibaldovich surprised the waiters no less than Sofya Pavlovna. He personally pushed the chair away from the table, inviting Koroviev to sit down, winked at one, whispered something to the other, and two waiters began to fuss around the new guests, one of whom placed his primus stove next to his rusty shoe on the floor. An old tablecloth with yellow spots immediately disappeared from the table, another white one, like a Bedouin burnous, flew up in the air, crunching with starch, and Archibald Archibaldovich was already whispering quietly, but very expressively, leaning towards Koroviev’s very ear:

What will I treat you with? I have a special little balyk... I tore it off at the architects' congress...

You... uh... give us a snack anyway... uh... - Koroviev hummed benevolently, leaning back on his chair.

“I understand,” Archibald Archibaldovich answered meaningfully, closing his eyes.

Having seen how the restaurant chef treated very dubious visitors, the waiters cast aside all doubts and got down to business seriously. One was already bringing a match to Behemoth, who had taken a cigarette butt out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, the other flew up, clinking green glass and displaying shot glasses, lafitniks and thin-walled glasses from the devices, from which it is so good to drink narzan under the awning... no, looking ahead, let's say ...drinking Narzan under the awning of the unforgettable Griboedov veranda.

“I can treat you to a hazel grouse filet,” Archibald Archibaldovich purred musically. The guest in the cracked pince-nez fully approved of the proposals of the brig commander and looked at him favorably through the useless glass.

The fiction writer Petrakov-Sukhovey, who was dining at the next table with his wife, who was finishing the pork escalope, with the observation characteristic of all writers, noticed the advances of Archibald Archibaldovich and was very surprised. And his wife, a very respectable lady, was simply jealous of the pirate towards Koroviev and even tapped with a spoon... - And why, they say, are they detaining us... it’s time to serve ice cream! What's the matter?

However, having sent Petrakova a seductive smile, Archibald Archibaldovich sent a waiter to her, but he himself did not leave his dear guests. Ah, Archibald Archibaldovich was smart! And he is observant, perhaps, no less than the writers themselves. Archibald Archibaldovich knew about the session at the Variety Show, and about many other incidents of these days, he heard, but, unlike others, he did not ignore either the word “checkered” or the word “cat”. Archibald Archibaldovich immediately guessed who his visitors were. And having guessed, naturally, he did not quarrel with them. But Sofya Pavlovna is good! After all, you have to invent this - blocking these two’s path to the veranda! But what can I ask her?

Arrogantly poking with a spoon into the soggy creamy ice cream, Petrakova watched with dissatisfied eyes as the table in front of two peas dressed as some kind of jesters was, as if by magic, overgrown with dishes. The lettuce leaves, washed to a shine, were already sticking out of the vase with fresh caviar... a moment, and a foggy silver bucket appeared on a specially moved separate table...

Only after making sure that everything had been done honorably, only when a closed frying pan with something grumbling in it arrived in the hands of the waiters, Archibald Archibaldovich allowed himself to leave the two mysterious visitors, and only then after whispering to them:

Sorry! For a minute! I’ll personally take care of the fillets.

He flew away from the table and disappeared into the interior passage of the restaurant. If any observer could trace the further actions of Archibald Archibaldovich, they would undoubtedly seem somewhat mysterious to him.

The chef did not go to the kitchen to watch the fillets, but to the restaurant’s pantry. He opened it with his key, locked himself in it, carefully took out two weighty balyks from the ice chest so as not to stain the cuffs, packed them in newsprint, carefully tied them with a string and put them aside. Then, in the next room, he checked that his silk-lined summer coat and hat were in place, and only after that he proceeded to the kitchen, where the cook was carefully cutting up the fillets that the pirate had promised to the guests.

It must be said that there was nothing strange or mysterious in all of Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions, and only a superficial observer could consider such actions strange. Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions followed completely logically from everything that had gone before. Knowledge of recent events, and mainly Archibald Archibaldovich’s phenomenal instinct, told the chef of the Griboyedov restaurant that the lunch of his two visitors, although plentiful and luxurious, would be extremely short. And his instincts, which never deceive the former filibuster, did not let him down this time either.

While Koroviev and Behemoth were clinking glasses with a second glass of excellent, cold Moscow double purification vodka, the sweaty and excited chronicler Boba Kandalupsky, known in Moscow for his amazing omniscience, appeared on the veranda and immediately sat down next to the Petrakovs. Putting his swollen briefcase on the table, Boba immediately put his lips into Petrakov’s ear and whispered some very seductive things into him. Madame Petrakova, languishing with curiosity, put her ear to Boba’s plump, oily lips, and he, occasionally looking around furtively, kept whispering and whispering, and one could hear individual words like these:

I swear on your honor! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya,” Boba lowered his voice even more, “they don’t take bullets.” Bullets... bullets... gasoline, fire... bullets...

These liars who spread nasty rumors,” Madame Petrakova boomed in her contralt voice in indignation, somewhat louder than Boba would have liked, “they should be explained!” Well, never mind, it will be so, they will be put in order! What harmful lies!

What lies, Antonida Porfiryevna! - exclaimed Boba, upset by the disbelief of the writer's wife, and whistled again: - I'm telling you, bullets don't take... And now there's a fire... They're in the air... in the air, - Boba hissed, not suspecting that those he was talking about tells, they sit next to him, enjoying his whistle. However, this pleasure soon ceased. Three men with tight belts around their waists, wearing leggings and with revolvers in their hands, quickly emerged from the interior passage of the restaurant onto the veranda. The one in front shouted loudly and terribly:

Don `t move! - and immediately all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming for the heads of Koroviev and Behemoth. Both of those being fired at immediately melted into the air, and a column of fire hit the awning from the primus stove. It was as if a gaping mouth with black edges appeared in the tent and began to crawl in all directions. The fire, rushing through it, rose to the very roof of the Griboedov house. Folders with papers lying on the second floor window in the editorial room suddenly flared up, and behind them the curtain caught, and then the fire, humming as if someone was fanning it, went in pillars inside the aunt’s house.

A few seconds later, along the asphalt paths leading to the cast-iron grate of the boulevard, from where on Wednesday evening the first messenger of misfortune, Ivanushka, who was not understood by anyone, came, now underfed writers, waiters, Sofya Pavlovna, Boba, Petrakova, Petrakov were running.

Having emerged through a side passage in advance, without running away and in no hurry, like a captain who is obliged to be the last to leave a burning brig, stood the calm Archibald Archibaldovich in a summer coat lined with silk, with two balik logs under his arm.

Mikhail Bulgakov - The Master and Margarita Chapter 28. Latest adventures Korovieva and Behemoth, read the text

Main characters

Master- anonymous writer, author of a novel about Pontius Pilate. Unable to bear the persecution from Soviet criticism, he goes crazy.

Margarita- his beloved. Having lost the master, she yearns for him and, in the hope of seeing him again, agrees to become queen at the annual Satan's ball.

Woland- a mysterious black magician who ultimately turns into Satan himself.

Azazello- a member of Woland’s retinue, a short, red-haired, fanged subject.

Koroviev- Woland’s companion, a tall, thin guy in a checkered jacket and pince-nez with one broken glass.

Hippopotamus- Woland’s jester, transforming from a huge talking black cat into a short fat man “with a cat’s face” and back.

Pontius Pilate- the fifth procurator of Judea, in which human feelings struggle with official duty.

Yeshua Ha-Nozri- a wandering philosopher, condemned to crucifixion for his ideas.

Other characters

Mikhail Berlioz- Chairman of MASSOLIT, the trade union of writers. He believes that a person determines his own destiny, but dies as a result of an accident.

Ivan Bezdomny- poet, member of MASSOLIT, after meeting Woland and the tragic death of Berlioz, he goes crazy.

Gella– Woland’s maid, an attractive red-haired vampire.

Styopa Likhodeev- director of the Variety Theater, Berlioz's neighbor. Mysteriously moves from Moscow to Yalta to free up an apartment for Woland and his retinue.

Ivan Varenukha- administrator of Variety. As an edification for his impoliteness and addiction to lies, Woland's retinue turns him into a vampire.

Grigory Rimsky- financial director of Variety, who almost fell victim to an attack by the vampire Varenukha and Gella.

Andrey Sokov- Variety bartender.

Vasily Lastochkin- accountant at Variety.

Natasha– Margarita’s housekeeper, a young attractive girl, follows her mistress and turns into a witch.

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy- Chairman of the housing association in the building where the “damned apartment” No. 50 is located, bribe-taker.

Aloisy Mogarych- a traitor to the master, pretending to be a friend.

Levi Matvey- Yershalaim tax collector, who is so captivated by the speeches of Yeshua that he becomes his follower.

Judah of Kiriath- a young man who betrayed Yeshua Ha-Nozri, who trusted him, being flattered by the reward. He was stabbed to death as punishment for this.

High Priest Caiaphas- an ideological opponent of Pilate, destroying the last hope for the salvation of the condemned Yeshua: in exchange for him, the robber Bar-Rabban will be released.

Afranius- Head of the Procurator's Secret Service.

Part one

Chapter 1. Never talk to strangers

At the Patriarch's Ponds in Moscow, the chairman of the MASSOLIT writers' trade union, Mikhail Berlioz, and the poet Ivan Bezdomny are talking about Jesus Christ. Berlioz reproaches Ivan for creating a negative image of this character in his poem instead of refuting the very fact of his existence, and gives many arguments to prove the non-existence of Christ.

A stranger who looks like a foreigner intervenes in the conversation of the writers. He asks the question, who, since there is no God, controls human life. Disputing the answer that “man himself controls,” he predicts Berlioz’s death: his head will be cut off by a “Russian woman, a Komsomol member” - and very soon, because a certain Annushka has already spilled sunflower oil.

Berlioz and Bezdomny suspect the stranger to be a spy, but he shows them documents and says that he has been invited to Moscow as a specialist consultant on black magic, after which he declares that Jesus did exist. Berlioz demands evidence, and the foreigner begins to talk about Pontius Pilate.

Chapter 2. Pontius Pilate

A beaten and poorly dressed man of about twenty-seven is brought to the trial of the procurator Pontius Pilate. Migraine-stricken Pilate must approve the death sentence pronounced by the Holy Sanhedrin: the accused Yeshua Ha-Nozri allegedly called for the destruction of the temple. However, after a conversation with Yeshua, Pilate begins to sympathize with the intelligent and educated prisoner, who, as if by magic, saved him from a headache and considers all people to be kind. The procurator is trying to get Yeshua to renounce the words that are attributed to him. But he, as if not sensing danger, easily confirms the information contained in the denunciation of a certain Judas from Kiriath - that he opposed all authority, and therefore the authority of the great Caesar. After this, Pilate is obliged to confirm the verdict.
But he makes another attempt to save Yeshua. In a private conversation with the high priest Caiaphas, he petitions that of the two prisoners under the authority of the Sanhedrin, Yeshua should be pardoned. However, Kaifa refuses, preferring to give life to the rebel and murderer Bar-Rabban.

Chapter 3. Seventh proof

Berlioz tells the consultant that it is impossible to prove the reality of his story. The foreigner claims that he was personally present at these events. The head of MASSOLIT suspects that this is a madman, especially since the consultant intends to live in Berlioz’s apartment. Having entrusted the strange subject to Bezdomny, Berlioz goes to a pay phone to call the foreigners' bureau. The consultant then asks him to at least believe in the devil and promises some reliable proof.

Berlioz is about to cross the tram tracks, but slips on spilled sunflower oil and falls onto the tracks. Berlioz's head is cut off by a tram wheel driven by a female tram driver wearing a Komsomol red scarf.

Chapter 4. The Chase

The poet, struck by the tragedy, hears that the oil on which Berlioz slipped was spilled by a certain Annushka and Sadovaya. Ivan compares these words with those spoken by the mysterious foreigner and decides to call him to account. However, the consultant, who previously spoke excellent Russian, pretends that he does not understand the poet. A cheeky guy in a checkered jacket comes to his defense, and a little later Ivan sees the two of them in the distance and, moreover, accompanied by a huge black cat. Despite all the poet’s efforts to catch up with them, they are hiding.

Ivan's further actions look strange. He invades an unfamiliar apartment, being sure that the evil professor is hiding there. Having stolen an icon and a candle from there, Bezdomny continues the chase and moves to the Moscow River. There he decides to take a swim, after which he discovers that his clothes have been stolen. Having dressed in what he has - a torn sweatshirt and long johns - Ivan decides to look for a foreigner “at Griboedov’s” - in the MASSOLIT restaurant.

Chapter 5. There was an affair in Griboedov

"Griboyedov's House" - MASSOLIT building. Being a writer - a member of a trade union is very profitable: you can apply for housing in Moscow and dachas in a prestigious village, go on sabbaticals, eat tasty and cheap food in a luxurious restaurant “for your own people”.

12 writers who gathered for the MASSOLIT meeting are waiting for Chairman Berlioz, and without waiting, they go down to the restaurant. Having learned about the tragic death of Berlioz, they mourn, but not for long: “Yes, he died, he died... But we are alive!” - and continue to eat.

Ivan Bezdomny appears in the restaurant - barefoot, in long johns, with an icon and a candle - and begins to look under the tables for the consultant whom he accuses of Berlioz's death. Colleagues try to calm him down, but Ivan becomes furious, starts a fight, the waiters tie him up with towels, and the poet is taken to a psychiatric hospital.

Chapter 6. Schizophrenia, as was said

The doctor is talking to Ivan Bezdomny. The poet is very glad that they are finally ready to listen to him, and tells him his fantastic story about a consultant who is familiar with evil spirits, “placed” Berlioz under a tram and is personally acquainted with Pontius Pilate.

In the middle of the story, Bezdomny remembers that he needs to call the police, but they won’t listen to the poet from the insane asylum. Ivan tries to escape from the hospital by breaking out a window, but the special glass holds out, and Bezdomny is placed in a ward with a diagnosis of schizophrenia.

Chapter 7. Bad apartment

The director of the Moscow Variety Theater Styopa Likhodeev wakes up with a hangover in his apartment, which he shares with the late Berlioz. The apartment has a bad reputation - there are rumors that its previous residents disappeared without a trace and evil spirits are allegedly involved in this.

Styopa sees a stranger in black, who claims that Likhodeev has made an appointment with him. He calls himself professor of black magic Woland and wants to clarify the details of the concluded and already paid contract for performances at the Variety Show, about which Styopa remembers nothing. Having called the theater and confirmed the guest’s words, Likhodeev finds him no longer alone, but with a checkered guy in a pince-nez and a huge talking black cat who drinks vodka. Woland announces to Styopa that he is unnecessary in the apartment, and a short, red-haired, fanged individual named Azazello, who emerges from the mirror, offers to “throw him the hell out of Moscow.”

Styopa finds himself on the seashore in an unfamiliar city and learns from a passerby that this is Yalta.

Chapter 8. The duel between the professor and the poet

Doctors led by Dr. Stravinsky come to see Ivan Bezdomny in the hospital. He asks Ivan to repeat his story again and wonders what he will do if he is released from the hospital now. The homeless man replies that he will go straight to the police to report about the damned consultant. Stravinsky convinces the poet that he is too upset by the death of Berlioz to behave adequately, and therefore they will not believe him and will immediately return him to the hospital. The doctor suggests that Ivan rest in a comfortable room and formulate a statement to the police in writing. The poet agrees.

Chapter 9. Koroviev's things

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosogo, chairman of the housing association in the house on Sadovaya where Berlioz lived, is besieged by applicants for the deceased’s vacated space. Barefoot, he visits the apartment himself. In Berlioz’s sealed office sits a subject who introduces himself as Koroviev, the translator of the foreign artist Woland, who lives with Likhodeev with the permission of his owner, who has left for Yalta. He invites Bosom to rent out Berlioz’s apartment to the artist and immediately hands him the rent and a bribe.

Nikanor Ivanovich leaves, and Woland expresses his wish that he should not appear again. Koroviev calls on the phone and reports that the chairman of the housing association illegally keeps currency at home. They come to Bosom with a search and instead of the rubles that Koroviev gave him, they find dollars. Barefoot is arrested.

Chapter 10. News from Yalta

In the office of the financial director of Variety Rimsky, he and the administrator Varenukha are sitting. They wonder where Likhodeev disappeared to. At this time, an urgent telegram from Yalta arrives in the name of Varenukha - someone has appeared at the local criminal investigation department claiming to be Stepan Likhodeev, and confirmation of his identity is needed. The administrator and financial director decide that this is a joke: Likhodeev called four hours ago from his apartment, promising to come to the theater soon, and since then he has not been able to move from Moscow to Crimea.

Varenukha calls Styopa's apartment, where he is informed that he has gone out of town for a ride in a car. A new version: “Yalta” is a cheburek restaurant where Likhodeev got drunk with a local telegraph operator and amused himself by sending telegrams to work.

Rimsky tells Varenukha to take the telegrams to the police. An unfamiliar nasal voice on the phone orders the administrator not to carry the telegrams anywhere, but he still goes to the department. Along the way, he is attacked by a fat man who looks like a cat and a short fanged individual. They deliver their victim to Likhodeev's apartment. The last thing Varenukha sees is a naked red-haired girl with burning eyes who is approaching him.

Chapter 11. Ivan's split

Ivan Bezdomny is in the hospital trying to make a statement to the police, but he can’t clearly explain what happened. In addition to this, he is worried about the thunderstorm outside the window. After a calming injection, the poet lies and talks “in his mind” to himself. One of the internal “interlocutors” continues to worry about the tragedy with Berlioz, the other is sure that instead of panic and pursuit, it was necessary to politely ask the consultant more about Pilate and find out the continuation of the story.

Suddenly, a stranger appears on the balcony outside the window of Homeless’s room.

Chapter 12. Black magic and its exposure

The financial director of Variety Rimsky wonders where Varenukha disappeared to. He wants to call the police about this, but all the phones in the theater are broken. Woland arrives at Variety, accompanied by Koroviev and a cat.

Entertainer Bengalsky introduces Woland to the public, declaring that, of course, no black magic exists, and the artist is only a virtuoso magician. Woland begins the “exposure session” with a philosophical conversation with Koroviev, whom he calls Fagot, about how Moscow and its inhabitants have changed a lot externally, but the more important question is whether they have become different internally. Bengalsky explains to the audience that the foreign artist admires Moscow and Muscovites, but the artists immediately object that they didn’t say anything like that.

Koroviev-Fagot performs a trick with a deck of cards, which is found in the wallet of one of the spectators. The skeptic, who decides that this spectator is in cahoots with the magician, finds a wad of money in his own pocket. After this, chervonets begin to fall from the ceiling, and people catch them. The entertainer calls what is happening “mass hypnosis” and assures the audience that the pieces of paper are not real, but the artists again deny his words. Fagot declares that he is tired of Bengalsky and asks the audience what to do with this liar. A proposal can be heard from the audience: “Tear off his head!” – and the cat tears off Bengal’s head. The audience feels sorry for the entertainer, Woland argues out loud that people, in general, remain the same, “the housing issue has only spoiled them,” and orders him to put his head back. Bengalsky leaves the stage and is taken away by ambulance.

“Tapericha, when this annoying thing is sold out, let’s open a ladies’ store!” - says Koroviev. Showcases, mirrors and rows of clothes appear on the stage, and the exchange of old dresses of spectators for new ones begins. As the store disappears, a voice from the audience demands the promised revelation. In response, Fagot exposes its owner - that yesterday he was not at work at all, but with his mistress. The session ends with a scandal.

Chapter 13. The appearance of a hero

A stranger from the balcony enters Ivan's room. This is also a patient. He has with him a bunch of keys stolen from a paramedic, but when asked why he won’t run away from the hospital with them, the guest replies that he has nowhere to run away. He informs Bezdomny about a new patient who keeps talking about currency in the ventilation, and asks the poet how he himself got here. Having learned that “because of Pontius Pilate,” he demands details and tells Ivan that he met with Satan at the Patriarch’s Ponds.

Pontius Pilate also brought the stranger to the hospital - Ivan’s guest wrote a novel about him. He introduces himself to Bezdomny as a “master” and, as proof, presents a hat with the letter M, which a certain “she” sewed for him. Next, the master tells the poet his story - how he once won a hundred thousand rubles, quit his job at the museum, rented an apartment in the basement and began writing a novel, and soon met his beloved: “Love jumped out in front of us, like a killer jumps out of the ground in an alley, and amazed us both at once! That’s how lightning strikes, that’s how a Finnish knife strikes!” . Just like the master himself, his secret wife fell in love with his novel, saying that her whole life was in it. However, the book was not accepted for publication, and when the excerpt was published, the reviews in the newspapers turned out to be disastrous - critics called the novel “Pilatchina”, and the author was branded a “Bogomaz” and a “militant Old Believer”. Particularly zealous was a certain Latunsky, whom the master’s beloved promised to kill. Soon after this, the master became friends with a literature fan named Aloysius Mogarych, who his beloved did not like very much. Meanwhile, reviews continued to come out, and the master began to go crazy. He burned his novel in the oven - the woman who entered managed to save only a few burnt sheets - and that same night he was evicted and ended up in a hospital. The master has not seen his beloved since then.
A patient is placed in the next ward and complains of his head being allegedly torn off. When the noise subsides, Ivan asks his interlocutor why he did not let his beloved know about himself, and he replies that he does not want to make her unhappy: “ Poor woman. However, I have hope that she has forgotten me!” .

Chapter 14. Glory to the Rooster!

From the window, the financial director of Variety Rimsky sees several ladies whose clothes suddenly disappeared in the middle of the street - these are the unlucky clients of the Fagot store. He has to make some calls about today's scandals, but is forbidden by the "depraved female voice" by phone.

By midnight, Rimsky is left alone in the theater, and then Varenukha appears with a story about Likhodeev. According to him, Styopa really got drunk in the Yalta cheburek with a telegraph operator and staged a prank with telegrams, and also committed many outrageous pranks, eventually ending up in a sobering-up station. Rimsky begins to notice that the administrator is behaving suspiciously - he is covering himself from the lamp with a newspaper, has acquired the habit of smacking his lips, has turned strangely pale, and has a scarf around his neck, despite the heat. And finally the findirector sees that Varenukha is not casting a shadow.

The unmasked vampire closes the office door from the inside, and a red-haired naked girl comes through the window. However, these two do not have time to deal with Rimsky - a rooster crows. The financial director, who miraculously escaped and turned gray overnight, hastily leaves for Leningrad.

Chapter 15. Nikanor Ivanovich's dream

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, in response to all questions from law enforcement officers about currency, repeats about evil spirits, a scoundrel translator and his complete innocence to the dollars found in his ventilation system. He admits: “I took it, but I took it with our Soviets!” . He is transferred to psychiatrists. A squad is sent to apartment No. 50 to check Bosy’s words about the translator, but finds it empty and the seals on the doors intact.

In the hospital, Nikanor Ivanovich has a dream - he is again interrogated about dollars, but this happens in the premises of some strange theater, in which, in parallel with the concert program, the audience is required to hand over currency. He screams in his sleep, the paramedic calms him down.

Bosogo's screams woke up his neighbors in the hospital. When Ivan Bezdomny falls asleep again, he begins to dream about the continuation of the story about Pilate.

Chapter 16. Execution

Those sentenced to death, including Yeshua, are taken to Bald Mountain. The place of the crucifixion is cordoned off: the procurator fears that they will try to recapture the convicts from the servants of the law.

Soon after the crucifixion, the spectators leave the mountain, unable to withstand the heat. The soldiers stay behind and suffer from the heat. But there was one more person lurking on the mountain - this is Yeshua’s disciple, the former Yershalaim tax collector Levi Matvey. When the death row prisoners were being taken to the place of execution, he wanted to get to Ga-Notsri and stab him with a knife stolen from a bread shop, saving him from a painful death, but he failed. He blames himself for what happened to Yeshua - he left the teacher alone, he fell ill at the wrong time - and asks the Lord to grant Ga-Nozri death. However, the Almighty is in no hurry to fulfill the request, and then Matthew Levi begins to grumble and curse him. As if in response to the blasphemy, a thunderstorm gathers, the soldiers leave the hill, and the commander of the cohort in a crimson mantle rises up the mountain to meet them. By his order, the sufferers on the pillars are killed with a spear thrust into the heart, ordering them to praise the magnanimous procurator.

A thunderstorm begins and the hill becomes empty. Levi Matthew approaches the pillars and removes all three corpses from them, after which he steals the body of Yeshua.

Chapter 17. Restless day

Variety accountant Lastochkin, who remained in charge of the theater, has no idea how to react to the rumors that are filling Moscow, and what to do with the incessant phone calls and investigators with a dog who came to look for the missing Rimsky. The dog, by the way, behaves strangely - at the same time it is angry, afraid and howls as if at an evil spirit - and does not bring any benefit to the search. It turns out that all the documents about Woland in Variety have disappeared - not even the posters remain.

Lastochkin goes with a report to the commission of spectacles and entertainment. There he discovers that in the chairman's office, instead of a man, an empty suit is sitting and signing papers. According to the tearful secretary, her boss visited a fat man who looked like a cat. The accountant decides to visit the branch of the commission - but there a certain checkered guy in a broken pince-nez organized a choral singing circle, disappeared, and the singers still can’t shut up.

Finally, Lastochkin arrives at the financial entertainment sector, wanting to donate the proceeds from yesterday's performance. However, instead of rubles, his portfolio turns out to be foreign currency. The accountant is arrested.

Chapter 18. Unlucky Visitors

The uncle of the late Berlioz, Maxim Poplavsky, arrives in Moscow from Kyiv. He received a strange telegram about the death of a relative, signed with the name of Berlioz himself. Poplavsky wants to claim his inheritance - housing in the capital.

In his nephew’s apartment, Poplavsky meets with Koroviev, who sobs and describes in vivid colors the death of Berlioz. The cat speaks to Poplavsky, says that it was he who gave the telegram, and demands the guest’s passport, and then informs him that his presence at the funeral is cancelled. Azazello throws Poplavsky out, telling him not to dream of an apartment in Moscow.

Immediately after Poplavsky, the barman Variety Sokov comes to the “bad” apartment. Woland voices to him a number of complaints about his work - green cheese, sturgeon is “second freshest,” tea “looks like slop.” Sokov, in turn, complains that the chervonets at the cash register have turned into cut paper. Woland and his retinue sympathize with him and, at the same time, predict death from liver cancer in nine months, and when Sokov wants to show them the former money, the paper again turns out to be in chervonets.

The barman rushes to the doctor and begs him to cure the disease. He pays for the visit with the same chervonets, and after he leaves they turn into wine labels.

Part two

Chapter 19. Margarita

The master’s beloved, Margarita Nikolaevna, has not forgotten him at all, and the wealthy life in her husband’s mansion is not pleasant to her. On the day of strange events with the barman and Poplavsky, she wakes up with the feeling that something will happen. For the first time during their separation, she dreamed of the master, and she goes to sort through the relics associated with him - this is his photograph, dried rose petals, a passbook with the remains of his winnings and the burnt pages of a novel.

Walking around Moscow, Margarita sees Berlioz's funeral. A small, red-haired citizen with a protruding fang sits down next to her and tells her about the head of a dead man stolen by someone, after which, calling her by name, he invites her to visit “a very noble foreigner.” Margarita wants to leave, but Azazello quotes lines from the master’s novel after her and hints that by agreeing, she can find out about her lover. The woman agrees, and Azazello hands her a certain magic cream and gives instructions.

Chapter 20. Azazello cream

After smearing herself with cream, Margarita becomes younger, prettier and gains the ability to fly. “Forgive me and forget me as soon as possible. I'm leaving you forever. Don't look for me, it's useless. I became a witch because of the grief and disasters that struck me. I have to go. Goodbye,” she writes to her husband. Her maid Natasha comes in, sees her and finds out about the magic cream. Azazello calls Margarita and says that it’s time to fly out - and a revived floor brush bursts into the room. Having saddled her, Margarita flies out the window in front of Natasha and her downstairs neighbor Nikolai Ivanovich.

Chapter 21. Flight

Margarita becomes invisible and, flying through Moscow at night, entertains herself with petty pranks, scaring people. But then she sees a luxurious house in which writers live, and among them is the critic Latunsky, who killed the master. Margarita enters his apartment through the window and causes a pogrom there.

As she continues her flight, Natasha, riding a hog, catches up with her. It turns out that the housekeeper rubbed herself with the remains of the magic cream and smeared it on her neighbor Nikolai Ivanovich, as a result of which she became a witch, and he became a boar. After swimming in the night river, Margarita sets off back to Moscow in the flying car given to her.

Chapter 22. By candlelight

In Moscow, Koroviev accompanies Margarita to a “bad” apartment and talks about Satan’s annual ball, where she will be queen, mentioning that Margarita herself has royal blood flowing in her. Inexplicably, ballrooms are placed inside the apartment, and Koroviev explains this by using the fifth dimension.

Woland lies in the bedroom, playing chess with the cat Behemoth, and Gella rubs ointment on his sore knee. Margarita replaces Gella, Woland asks the guest if she too is suffering from something: “Perhaps you have some kind of sadness that poisons your soul, melancholy?” , but Margarita answers negatively. There is not much left until midnight, and she is taken away to prepare for the ball.

Chapter 23. Satan's Great Ball

Margarita is bathed in blood and rose oil, they put on the queen's regalia and lead her to the stairs to meet the guests - long dead, but for the sake of the ball, criminals resurrected for one night: poisoners, pimps, counterfeiters, murderers, traitors. Among them is a young woman named Frida, whose story Koroviev tells Margarita: “When she was serving in a cafe, the owner once called her into the pantry, and nine months later she gave birth to a boy, took him into the forest and put a handkerchief in his mouth, and then buried the boy in the ground. At the trial, she said that she had nothing to feed her child.” Since then, for 30 years, Frida has been brought that same scarf every morning.

The reception ends, and Margarita must fly around the halls and pay attention to the guests. Woland comes out and Azazello brings Berlioz's head to him on a platter. Woland releases Berlioz into oblivion, and his skull turns into a cup. This vessel is filled with the blood of Baron Meigel, a Moscow official who was shot by Azazello, the only living guest at the ball, in which Woland identified a spy. The cup is brought to Margarita, and she drinks. The ball ends, everything disappears, and in the place of the huge hall there appears a modest living room and the slightly open door to Woland’s bedroom.

Chapter 24. Extracting the Master

Margarita has more and more fears that there will be no reward for Satan’s presence at the ball, but the woman herself does not want to remind about it out of pride, and even to Woland’s direct question she answers that she does not need anything. “Never ask for anything! Never and nothing, and especially among those who are stronger than you. They will offer and give everything themselves!” - says Woland, pleased with her, and offers to fulfill any wish of Margarita. However, instead of solving her problem, she demands that Frida stop giving the handkerchief. Woland says that the queen can do such a small thing herself, and his offer remains in force - and then Margarita finally wants her “her lover, the master, to be returned to her this very second.”

The master appears in front of her. Woland, having heard about the novel about Pilate, becomes interested in it. The manuscript that the master burned turns out to be completely intact in Woland’s hands - “manuscripts don’t burn.”
Margarita asks to return her and her lover to his basement, and for everything to return as it was. The master is skeptical: others have been living in his apartment for a long time, he has no documents, they will look for him for escaping from a hospital. Woland solves all these problems, and it turns out that the master’s living space was occupied by his “friend” Mogarych, who wrote a denunciation against him that the master kept illegal literature.

Natasha, at the request of her and Margarita, is left as a witch. Neighbor Nikolai Ivanovich, who has been restored to his appearance, demands a certificate for the police and his wife that he spent the night at Satan’s ball, and the cat immediately composes one for him. Administrator Varenukha appears and begs to be released from the vampires because he is not bloodthirsty.

In parting, Woland promises the master that his work will still bring him surprises. The lovers are taken to their basement apartment. There the master falls asleep, and happy Margarita rereads his novel.

Chapter 25. How the procurator tried to save Judas

A thunderstorm is raging over Yershalaim. The head of the secret service, Afranius, comes to the procurator and reports that the execution has been completed, there are no riots in the city and the mood is generally quite satisfactory. Moreover, he talks about last hours the life of Yeshua, quoting the words of Ha-Nozri that “among human vices, he considers cowardice to be one of the most important.”

Pilate orders Afranius to urgently and secretly bury the bodies of all three executed and take care of the safety of Judas from Kiriath, whom, as he allegedly heard, the “secret friends of Ha-Nozri” were to be slaughtered that night. In fact, the procurator himself is right now allegorically ordering this murder to the head of the secret guard.

Chapter 26. Burial

The procurator understands that he missed something very important today and no orders will bring it back. He finds some consolation only in communication with his beloved dog Bunga.

Afranius, meanwhile, visits a young woman named Nisa. Soon she meets in the city with Judas from Kiriath, who is in love with her, who has just received payment from Caiaphas for betraying Yeshua. She makes an appointment for the young man in a garden near Yershalaim. Instead of the girl, Judas is met there by three men, who kill him with a knife and take away his wallet with thirty pieces of silver. One of these three - Afranius - returns to the city, where the procurator, waiting for the report, fell asleep. In his dreams, Yeshua is alive and walks next to him along the lunar road, both of them happily argue about the necessary and important things, and the procurator understands that, indeed, there is no vice worse than cowardice - and it was precisely cowardice that he showed by being afraid to justify a freethinking philosopher to the detriment of his career.

Afranius says that Judas is dead, and a package with silver and a note “I am returning the damned money” was planted on the high priest Caiaphas. Pilate tells Afranius to spread the rumor that Judas committed suicide. Further, the head of the secret service reports that Yeshua’s body was found not far from the place of execution from a certain Levi Matthew, who did not want to give it up, but upon learning that Ha-Nozri would be buried, he resigned himself.

Levi Matthew is brought to the procurator, who asks him to show a parchment with the words of Yeshua. Levi reproaches Pilate for the death of Ha-Nozri, to which he notes that Yeshua himself did not blame anyone. The former tax collector warns that he is going to kill Judas, but the procurator informs him that the traitor is already dead and it was he, Pilate, who did it.

Chapter 27. The end of apartment No. 50

In Moscow, the investigation into Woland’s case continues, and the police once again go to the “bad” apartment, where all ends lead. A talking cat with a primus stove is found there. He provokes a shootout, which, however, leaves no casualties. The voices of Woland, Koroviev and Azazello are heard, saying that it is time to leave Moscow - and the cat, apologizing, disappears, spilling burning gasoline from the primus stove. The apartment is on fire, and four silhouettes fly out of its window - three men and one woman.

A man in a checkered jacket and a fat man with a primus in his hands, looking like a cat, come to a store selling foreign currency. The fat man eats tangerines, herring and chocolate from the window, and Koroviev calls on the people to protest against the fact that scarce goods are sold to foreigners for foreign currency, and not to their own - for rubles. When the police appear, the partners hide, having first started a fire, and move to Griboyedov’s restaurant. Soon it will light up too.

Chapter 29. The fate of the master and Margarita is determined

Woland and Azazello are talking on the terrace of one of the Moscow buildings, looking at the city. Levi Matvey appears to them and conveys that “he” - meaning Yeshua - has read the master’s novel and asks Woland to give the author and his beloved the well-deserved peace. Woland tells Azazello to “go to them and arrange everything.”

Chapter 30. It's time! It's time!

Azazello visits the master and Margarita in their basement. Before this, they are talking about the events of last night - the master is still trying to comprehend them and convince Margarita to leave him and not ruin herself with him, she absolutely believes Woland.

Azazello sets the apartment on fire, and all three, riding black horses, fly off into the sky.

Along the way, the master says goodbye to Homeless, whom he calls a student, and bequeaths him to write a continuation of the story about Pilate.

Chapter 31. On the Sparrow Hills

Azazello, the master and Margarita are reunited with Woland, Koroviev and Behemoth. The master says goodbye to the city. “In the first moments, a painful sadness crept into my heart, but very quickly it was replaced by a sweetish anxiety, a wandering gypsy excitement. […] His excitement turned, as it seemed to him, into a feeling of bitter resentment. But she was unstable, disappeared and for some reason was replaced by proud indifference, and this was replaced by a premonition of constant peace.”

Chapter 32. Farewell and eternal shelter

Night comes, and in the light of the moon the horsemen flying across the sky change their appearance. Koroviev turns into a gloomy knight in purple armor, Azazello into a desert demon killer, Behemoth into a slender young page, “the best jester that has ever existed in the world.” Margarita does not see her transformation, but before her eyes the master acquires a gray braid and spurs. Woland explains that today is the night when all scores are settled. In addition, he informs the master that Yeshua read his novel and noted that, unfortunately, it is not finished.

A man sitting in a chair and a dog next to him appear before the eyes of the riders. Pontius Pilate has been seeing the same dream for two thousand years - a lunar road that he cannot follow. “Free! Free! He is waiting for you!" - the master shouts, releasing his hero and completing the novel, and Pilate finally leaves with his dog along the lunar road to where Yeshua is waiting for him.

Peace awaits the master himself and his beloved, as promised. “Don’t you really want to walk with your girlfriend during the day under the cherry trees that are beginning to bloom, and in the evening listen to Schubert’s music? Wouldn't it be nice for you to write by candlelight with a quill pen? Don't you really want to, like Faust, sit over the retort in the hope that you will be able to fashion a new homunculus? There, there. There is already a house and an old servant waiting for you, the candles are already burning, and soon they will go out, because you will immediately meet the dawn,” is how Woland describes him. “Look, there ahead is your eternal home, which was given to you as a reward. I can already see the Venetian window and the climbing grapes, it rises to the very roof. I know that in the evening those whom you love, whom you are interested in and who will not alarm you will come to you. They will play for you, they will sing to you, you will see the light in the room when the candles are burning. You will fall asleep, having put on your greasy and eternal cap, you will fall asleep with a smile on your lips. Sleep will strengthen you, you will begin to reason wisely. And you won’t be able to drive me away. I will take care of your sleep,” Margarita picks up. The master himself feels that someone is setting him free, just as he himself had just set Pilate free.

Epilogue

The investigation into Woland's case reached a dead end, and as a result, all the oddities in Moscow were explained by the machinations of a gang of hypnotists. Varenukha stopped lying and being rude, Bengalsky gave up the entertainer, preferring to live on savings, Rimsky refused the post of financial director of the Variety Show, and his place was taken by the enterprising Aloisy Mogarych. Ivan Bezdomny left the hospital and became a professor of philosophy, and only on full moons is he bothered by dreams about Pilate and Yeshua, the master and Margarita.

Conclusion

Bulgakov originally conceived the novel “The Master and Margarita” as a satire about the devil called “The Black Magician” or “The Great Chancellor.” But after six editions, one of which Bulgakov burned with his own hand, the book turned out to be not so much satirical as philosophical, in which the devil in the form of the mysterious black magician Woland became only one of the characters. The motives of eternal love, mercy, the search for truth and the triumph of justice came to the fore.

A brief retelling of “The Master and Margarita” chapter by chapter is enough only for a rough understanding of the plot and main ideas of the work - we recommend that you read the full text of the novel.

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Retelling rating

Average rating: 4.5. Total ratings received: 21096.

M. Bulgakov is an amazing writer. The problems that worried and tormented him were old, like the world, and new, like tomorrow, human questions about the world, about happiness, about the meaning of life. In the novel “The Master and Margarita,” the artist’s main theme was “the theme of common human responsibility for the fate of goodness, beauty, and truth in the human world.” It was very important for the author to show not so much historical events as their moral component. This, it seems to me, is the main meaning of the episode “The Last Adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth.”

This fragment is logically connected with the previous chapter, from which we learn that the task force did not stop working for a minute. After the next call, it turned out that the apartment on Sadovaya “again showed signs of life.” Experienced officers went to apprehend dangerous criminals. But only a cat was found in the apartment. All attempts to catch him ended in failure. Suddenly a fire starts. “... In the courtyard, people saw how, along with the smoke, three dark, as it seemed, male silhouettes flew out of the window of the fifth floor...”

“Whether these silhouettes existed or were just imagined... it’s impossible to say with certainty.” This is how the next 28th chapter begins. It also ends indefinitely. It is unknown where “both scoundrels” went. The ring composition allows you to convey a feeling of mystery and ambiguity. This construction helps to understand a very important author’s idea. Bulgakov strives to artistically affirm the feeling of the fragility of the world, where the ordinary and the otherworldly are inextricably intertwined and inseparable from each other.

The theme of the episode is not difficult to determine. It is reflected in the title of the chapter: we will talk about the latest adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth.

The plot is quite simple: Woland’s assistants decided to once again check the residents of Moscow by visiting a store opened specifically for trading in foreign currency.

Main actors Chapter 28 are Koroviev and Behemoth.. We see them “on Sadovaya at the mirror doors of Torgsin.” The author paints real pictures from the life of Muscovites, gives real names, emphasizing the authenticity of the events taking place. And miracles happen nearby: the cat turns into a human. This is also one of the important features of Bulgakov's style - mixing the real with the fantastic.

The episode lasts several minutes. But during this time, the whole world of everyday miracles in the phenomena of reality worthy of satire is masterfully noticed by the writer’s ironic gaze.

Our heroes are trying to get into the treasured door of the store, but they must overcome the fierce resistance of an unfriendly, irritated doorman. Just a few details in the portrait of this minor character (“small, bony,” “shaggy, moth-eaten gray eyebrows”) - and before us is a man who, in his insignificant post, has unlimited power.

The entire micro-episode is built on contrast. A physically weak person “blocks” the path of the heroes. The verbs accompanying this image are very expressive: “bulged” (eyes), “croaked.” The author's attitude is clearly felt. Koroviev is in a friendly mood: he begins his conversation with an apology, his voice “rattles.” But the “most precious guardian” is accustomed to judging people “by their clothes.” Anyone who does not comply with this law causes irritation and contempt in him.

After the “citizen in a checkered suit” promised to complain to the manager, “looking with hatred and doubt at the outlandish couple, the doorman stood aside...”. This is the beginning of the episode.

And then the writer draws the interior of a “wonderful store.” The characters seem to be looking at a painting: there is a foreground (“hundreds of pieces of chintz”), a perspective (“stacks of boxes with shoes”), and a richness of colors. The interior emphasizes order, abundance, and external well-being.

It's hard to tear yourself away from all these "charms". But our heroes go further, to the gastronomic and confectionery departments. And everything turned out great there. But behind the apparent prosperity lies a world of evil, hatred, hypocrisy, and spiritual degradation of people. The writer masterfully recreates this.

Here in front of us is a foreigner. His portrait sketch is interesting, in which the author uses color painting: a blue-shaved head, a lilac coat, red gloves. Color enhances the visual impression, emphasizing the unnaturalness and lifelessness of the image. Artistic definitions (“short, square”), periphrases (“foreigner”, “lilac back”, “lilac gentleman”, lilac buyer”, “lilac”), the expressive verb “moos” deepen the objectivity, the “thingness” of the image.

“The foreigner is cute,” the heroes come to the conclusion. And in these words one can feel the author’s bitter irony.

Next come two interesting dialogue built on contrast. A foreigner takes part in the first conversation. “Lilac” speaks broken Russian, sternly, displeasedly, “moos imperiously.” The seller answers ingratiatingly. Mostly incomplete sentences are used, and the seller’s obsequiousness is enhanced by exclamatory sentences.

Is this attitude towards everyone? Our heroes decided to check it out and went to the confectionery department. The saleswoman does not pay attention to them; she is not interested in such buyers. Only when Behemoth began to eat tangerines from the counter did she “become overwhelmed with mortal horror.” The remarks of the “red-cheeked saleswoman” are also exclamatory sentences. But they show complete contempt and disrespect for customers.

The scream made other sellers “petrify behind the counters,” and the public from neighboring departments “fell to this scream.” And Behemoth continued the “planned performance”: he pulled out a couple of herrings and swallowed them.” The sellers forgot about etiquette and politeness. Characteristic colloquial vocabulary appears (“bad”, “barked”). The action takes on a disjointed, feverish, noisy pace. This is also one of the features of the writer’s creative style. Where there is no inner life of a person, the boiling of vanity becomes chaotic.

What follows is Koroviev’s monologue. This is a kind of parody of oratorical performances that were frequent at that time. The “former regent” traditionally begins with the address (“citizens”). The speech is full of rhetorical questions and exclamations. Along with high vocabulary (“citizens”, “exhausted by hunger and thirst”), colloquial words and expressions are used (“as”, “repairing the Primus stove”, “took for a test”, “price three kopecks”). The synonymous series is interesting (poor man " - unfortunate), the technique of repetition allows you to achieve special expression in the transfer of feelings.

And against the backdrop of this poverty - a foreigner in a formal suit, “all swollen from salmon,” “stuffed with currency.” The “speaker” “allows tremors in his voice, speaks in a “thin vibrating voice”, uses facial expressions and gestures. Korov's speech aroused sympathy in the public. A miracle happened. The crowd, ready to tear apart the villains a few minutes ago, wavered. All the anger falls on the foreigner. The personification of the public’s rage was “a most decent, quiet old man. He attacked the foreigner, who suddenly spoke purely Russian. A truth was revealed that no one had noticed before. This is the climax of the episode.

The image of the crowd created by the writer takes on special significance. I think Bulgakov forces the reader to pay attention to an irreversible process: a person loses himself, there is a senseless splitting, the spiritual degradation of people. They turn into a faceless controlled crowd. Here we see one of the most striking features of Bulgakov’s creative individuality: his satirical view is organically combined with philosophical understanding the surrounding world.

When “two police helmets” appeared, the store caught fire. The panic began. “And both scoundrels disappeared somewhere, but where it was impossible to understand.” This is how the episode ended. At the denouement, one of the main ideas of the novel was voiced - the idea of justice of punishment.

I would especially like to say about the role of the author in this fragment of the novel. We feel the constant presence of the writer. It is in direct statements, and in emotional syntax (an abundance of exclamatory sentences in intonation, impersonal constructions, semantic dashes, numerous inversions), and in the precise selection of vocabulary.

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Master and Margarita
Michael Bulgakov

Chapter 27
End of apartment N 50

When Margarita reached the last words of the chapter “... this is how the fifth procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate, greeted the dawn of the fifteenth Nisan,” morning came.

In the courtyard, among the willow and linden branches, you could hear the sparrows having a cheerful, excited morning conversation.

Margarita rose from her chair, stretched, and only now did she realize how broken her body was and how she wanted to sleep. It is interesting to note that Margarita’s soul was in perfect order. Her thoughts were not in confusion, she was not at all shocked by the fact that she had spent the night supernaturally. She was not bothered by the memories that she was at Satan’s ball, that by some miracle the master was returned to her, that a romance arose from the ashes, that again everything was in its place in the basement in the alley from where the sneaky Aloysius Mogarych was expelled . In a word, meeting Woland did not bring her any mental damage. Everything was as if it should be so. She went into the next room, made sure that the master was sleeping soundly and peacefully, and extinguished the unnecessary table lamp and she herself stretched out under the opposite wall on a sofa covered with an old torn sheet. A minute later she was asleep, and she didn’t have any dreams that morning. The rooms in the basement were silent, the entire small house of the developer was silent, and it was quiet in the back alley.

But at this time, that is, at dawn on Saturday, an entire floor in one of the Moscow institutions was awake, and the windows in it, overlooking a large area filled with asphalt, which special cars, slowly driving around with a hum, cleaned with brushes, shone with full light, cutting through the light of the rising sun.

The entire floor was occupied by the investigation into the Woland case, and lamps burned all night in ten rooms.

As a matter of fact, the matter became clear already from yesterday, Friday, when Variety had to be closed due to the disappearance of its administration and all sorts of outrages that happened the day before during the famous session of black magic. But the fact is that all the time, more and more new material was constantly entering the sleepless floor.

Now the investigation into this strange case, which smacked of absolutely obvious devilry, and even with an admixture of some hypnotic tricks and completely clear criminality, had to piece together all the diverse and confused events that took place in different places in Moscow into a single lump.

The first person to visit the sleepless floor glowing with electricity was Arkady Apollonovich Sempleyarov, chairman of the acoustic commission.

After lunch on Friday, in his apartment, located in a house near the stone bridge, a bell rang, and a male voice asked for Arkady Apollonovich to answer the phone. Arkady Apollonovich's wife answered the phone gloomily that Arkady Apollonovich was unwell, had gone to bed, and could not approach the phone. However, Arkady Apollonovich still had to approach the device. When asked where they were asking Arkady Apollonovich from, the voice on the phone very briefly answered where.

“This second... now... this minute...” the usually very arrogant wife of the chairman of the acoustic commission stammered and, like an arrow, flew into the bedroom to raise Arkady Apollonovich from the bed on which he lay, experiencing hellish torment at the memory of yesterday’s session and the night scandal that accompanied the expulsion of his niece from the Saratov apartment.

True, not in a second, but not even in a minute, but in a quarter of a minute, Arkady Apollonovich in one shoe on his left foot, in only underwear, was already at the device, babbling into it:

- Yes, it’s me... listening, listening...

His wife, who for those moments had forgotten all the disgusting crimes against fidelity in which the unfortunate Arkady Apollonovich had been convicted, leaned out of the corridor door with a frightened face, poked her shoe in the air and whispered:

“Put on a shoe, a shoe... you’ll catch a cold in your feet,” to which Arkady Apollonovich, swatting his wife away with his bare foot and making brutal eyes at her, muttered into the phone:

- Yes, yes, yes, of course, I understand... I’m leaving now.

Arkady Apollonovich spent the entire evening on the very floor where the investigation was conducted. The conversation was painful, it was a most unpleasant conversation, because I had to talk with complete frankness not only about this vile session and the fight in the box, but along the way, which was really necessary, about Militsa Andreevna Pokobatko from Elokhovskaya Street, and about the Saratov niece, and about much more something else about which the stories brought Arkady Apollonovich unspeakable torment.

It goes without saying that the testimony of Arkady Apollonovich, an intelligent and cultured man who was a witness to the ugly seance, an intelligent and qualified witness, who perfectly described both the mysterious magician in the mask and his two scoundrels-assistants, who perfectly remembered that the magician’s last name was Woland , – significantly moved the investigation forward. Comparison of the testimony of Arkady Apollonovich with the testimony of others, including some ladies who suffered after the session (the one in purple lingerie who amazed Rimsky, and, alas, many others), and the courier Karpov, who was sent to apartment No. 50 on Sadovaya street - in fact, immediately established the place where the culprit of all these adventures should be looked for.

They visited apartment No. 50 more than once, and not only examined it extremely carefully, but also tapped the walls in it, examined the fireplace chimneys, and looked for hiding places. However, all these measures did not produce any results, and on none of the visits to the apartment was it possible to find anyone in it, although it was completely clear that there was someone in the apartment, despite the fact that all the persons who were in one way or another had to deal with questions about foreign artists arriving in Moscow, they resolutely and categorically asserted that there was no and could not be any black magician Woland in Moscow.

He absolutely did not register anywhere upon arrival, did not show anyone his passport or any other papers, contracts or agreements, and no one heard anything about him! The head of the program department of the Chinese entertainment commission swore and swore that the missing Styopa Likhodeev did not send him any program for the presentation of any Woland for approval and did not telephone anything about the arrival of such a Woland to Kitatsev. So it is completely incomprehensible and unknown to him, Kitaytsev, how Styopa could allow such a session at the Variety Show. When they said that Arkady Apollonovich saw this magician with his own eyes at a séance, Kitaytsev only threw up his hands and raised his eyes to the sky. And one could see and boldly say from Kitaytsev’s eyes that he was as pure as crystal.

The same Prokhor Petrovich, chairman of the main entertainment commission... By the way: he returned to his suit immediately after the police entered his office, to the ecstatic joy of Anna Richardovna and to the great bewilderment of the police who had disturbed him in vain. Also by the way: having returned to his place, in his gray striped suit, Prokhor Petrovich completely approved of all the resolutions that the suit had imposed during his short absence.

So, that same Prokhor Petrovich absolutely knew nothing about any Woland.

Something, if you please, was utter: thousands of spectators, the entire Variety Show, and finally Arkady Appolonovich Sempleyarov, the most educated man, saw this magician, as well as his damned assistants, and yet there was no way to find him anywhere. Well, let me ask you, did he perhaps disappear into the ground immediately after his disgusting session, or, as some claim, did he not come to Moscow at all? But if we assume the first, then there is no doubt that, in failing, he took with him the entire head of the Variety administration, and if the second, then doesn’t it turn out that the administration of the ill-fated theater itself, having previously committed some kind of dirty trick (just remember the broken window in the office and Tuzabuben's behavior!), disappeared from Moscow without a trace.

We must give justice to whoever led the investigation. The missing Rimsky was found with amazing speed. One had only to compare Tuzabuben’s behavior at the taxi stand near the cinema with certain time dates, such as when the show ended and when exactly Rimsky could have disappeared, in order to immediately give a telegram to Leningrad. An hour later the answer came (by Friday evening) that Rimsky had been found in room four hundred and twelve of the Astoria Hotel, on the fourth floor, next to the room where the head of the repertoire of one of the Moscow theaters that was touring Leningrad at that time was staying, in that very room , where, as you know, there is gray-blue furniture with gold and a beautiful bathroom.

Discovered hiding in the wardrobe of the four hundred and twelfth issue of Astoria, Rimsky was immediately arrested and interrogated in Leningrad. After which a telegram arrived in Moscow informing him that the financial director of Variety was in a state of insanity, that he did not give good answers to questions or did not want to give them, and asked only for one thing, that he be hidden in an armored cell and armed guards assigned to him. A telegram from Moscow ordered Rimsky to be taken to Moscow under guard, as a result of which Rimsky left on Friday evening under such guard on the evening train.

By Friday evening, Likhodeev’s trace was also found. Telegrams with inquiries about Likhodeev were sent to all cities, and a response was received from Yalta that Likhodeev was in Yalta, but flew on an airplane to Moscow. The only one whose trail could not be caught was that of Varenukha. The famous theater administrator, known throughout Moscow, sank into thin air.

In the meantime, I had to deal with incidents in other places in Moscow, outside the Variety Theater. I had to explain the unusual case of employees singing “glorious sea” (by the way: Professor Stravinsky managed to put them in order within two hours by some kind of injection under the skin), with persons who presented God knows what to other persons or institutions under the guise of money, as well as with persons affected by such presentations.

As is self-evident, the most scandalous and insoluble of all these cases was the case of the abduction of the head of the late writer Berlioz directly from the coffin in the Griboyedov Hall, carried out in broad daylight.

Twelve people carried out the investigation, collecting, as if on a knitting needle, the cursed loops of this complex case, scattered throughout Moscow.

One of the investigators arrived at Professor Stravinsky’s clinic and first of all asked to see a list of those people who had been admitted to the clinic over the past three days. Thus, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy and the unfortunate entertainer were discovered, whose head was torn off. However, little attention was paid to them. Now it was easy to establish that these two were victims of the same gang, led by this mysterious magician. But the investigator was extremely interested in Ivan Nikolaevich Bezdomny.

The door of Ivanushka's room No. 117 opened on Friday evening, and a young, round-faced, calm and gentle man entered the room, not at all like an investigator, and yet one of the best investigators in Moscow. He saw a pale and haggard young man lying on the bed, with eyes that showed a lack of interest in what was happening around him, with eyes that turned somewhere into the distance, above the surroundings, then inside the young man himself.

The investigator affectionately introduced himself and said that he had come to Ivan Nikolaevich to talk about the incidents the day before yesterday at the Patriarch's Ponds.

Oh, how Ivan would have triumphed if the investigator had come to him earlier, at least, say, on Thursday night, when Ivan violently and passionately sought to listen to his story about the Patriarch's Ponds. Now his dream of helping to catch the consultant had come true, he no longer needed to run after anyone, they came to him precisely to listen to his story about what happened on Wednesday evening.

But, alas, Ivanushka has completely changed in the time since the death of Berlioz. He was ready to answer all the investigator’s questions willingly and politely, but indifference was felt both in Ivan’s gaze and in his intonations. The poet was no longer touched by Berlioz's fate.

Before the investigator arrived, Ivanushka was dozing while lying down, and some visions passed through him. So, he saw a strange, incomprehensible, non-existent city, with blocks of marble, worn-out colonnades, with roofs sparkling in the sun, with a black gloomy and merciless Antony Tower, with a palace on the western hill, immersed to the rooftops almost in the tropical greenery of the garden, bronze, burning at sunset, like statues above this greenery, he saw Roman centuries, clad in armor, walking under the walls of the ancient city.

In a drowsiness, a man in a white robe with red lining appeared in front of Ivan, motionless in a chair, shaven, with a twitched yellow face, looking hatefully into the lush and alien garden. Ivan also saw a treeless yellow hill with empty pillars and crossbars.

And what happened at the Patriarch’s Ponds no longer interested the poet Ivan Bezdomny.

– Tell me, Ivan Nikolaevich, how far were you from the turnstile when Berlioz fell under the tram?

For some reason, a barely noticeable indifferent smile touched Ivan’s lips, and he replied:

- I was far away.

– Was this checkered one near the turnstile?

- No, he was sitting on a bench not far away.

– Do you remember well that he did not approach the turnstile at the moment when Berlioz fell?

- I remember. Didn't fit. He sat lounging.

These questions were the investigator's last questions. After them, he stood up, extended his hand to Ivanushka, wished him to get well soon and expressed the hope that he would soon read his poems again.

“No,” Ivan answered quietly, “I won’t write any more poetry.” The investigator smiled politely and allowed himself to express confidence that the poet was now in a state of some depression, but that this would soon pass.

“No,” Ivan responded, looking not at the investigator, but into the distance, at the fading sky, “this will never work out for me.” The poems I wrote were bad poems, and I now realized that. The investigator left Ivanushka, having received very important material. Following the thread of events from end to beginning, we finally managed to get to the source from which all events originated. The investigator had no doubt that these events began with the murder at Patriarch's. Of course, neither Ivanushka nor this checkered one pushed the unfortunate chairman of MASSOLIT under the tram; physically, so to speak, no one contributed to his fall under the wheels. But the investigator was sure that Berlioz threw himself under the tram (or fell under it), being hypnotized.

Yes, there was already a lot of material, and it was already known who and where to catch. Yes, the thing is that there was no way to catch him. In the thrice-cursed apartment No. 50, undoubtedly, it must be repeated, there was someone. At times, this apartment answered telephone calls in a crackling or nasal voice; sometimes a window was opened in the apartment; moreover, the sounds of a gramophone were heard from inside it. And yet, every time they headed for it, there was absolutely no one there. And we've been there more than once, and different time days. And not only that, they walked around the apartment with a net, checking all the corners. The apartment had long been under suspicion. They guarded not only the path that led into the courtyard through the gateway, but also the back door; Not only that, but guards were posted on the roof near the chimneys. Yes, apartment No. 50 was acting up, but nothing could be done about it.

So the matter dragged on until midnight from Friday to Saturday, when Baron Meigel, dressed in Evening Dress and patent leather shoes, solemnly proceeded to apartment No. 50 as a guest. It was heard how the baron was let into the apartment, exactly ten minutes after that, without any calls, they visited the apartment, but not only did they not find the owners in it, but, what was completely outlandish, they did not find any signs of Baron Meigel in it.

So, as was said, the matter dragged on like this until Saturday dawn. New and very interesting data has been added here. A six-seater passenger plane landing from Crimea landed at a Moscow airfield. Among the other passengers, one very strange passenger disembarked. It was a young citizen, wildly overgrown with stubble, who had not washed for three days, with bloodshot and frightened eyes, without luggage and dressed somewhat bizarrely. The citizen was wearing a papakha, a burka over a nightgown, and brand new blue leather night shoes that he had just bought. As soon as he separated from the ladder along which they descended from the airplane cabin, they approached him. This citizen was already expected, and after some time the unforgettable director of the Variety Show, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev, appeared before the investigation. He added new data. Now it became clear that Woland entered the Variety Show under the guise of an artist, hypnotized Styopa Likhodeev, and then managed to throw the same Styopa out of Moscow God knows how many kilometers away. Thus, there was more material, but this did not make it any easier, and, perhaps, it even became a little harder, because it became obvious that it would not be so easy to master such a person who did things like the one of which Stepan Bogdanovich became a victim. easily. By the way, Likhodeev, at his own request, was imprisoned in a secure cell, and Varenukha appeared before the investigation, having just been arrested at his apartment, to which he had returned after an unknown absence for almost two days.

Despite Azazello’s promise not to lie again, the administrator began with a lie. Although, however, one cannot judge him very harshly for this. After all, Azazello forbade him to lie and be rude on the phone, and in this case the administrator spoke without the assistance of this device. Wandering his eyes, Ivan Savelyevich stated that on Thursday afternoon he got drunk alone in his office at Variety, after which he went somewhere, but he doesn’t remember where, he drank starka somewhere else, but he doesn’t remember where. He was lying under the fence, but again he doesn’t remember where. Only after the administrator was told that with his stupid and reckless behavior he was interfering with the investigation of an important case and, of course, would be held accountable for this, Varenukha burst into tears and whispered in a trembling voice and looking around that he was lying solely out of fear, fearing the revenge of Wolandov’s gang , in whose hands he has already been, and that he asks, begs, longs to be locked in an armored cell.

- Ugh, damn you! So they were given this armored cell, grumbled one of the investigators.

“They were greatly frightened by these scoundrels,” said the investigator who visited Ivanushka.

They calmed Varenukha as best they could, they said that they would guard him even without any camera, and it immediately became clear that he had not drunk any stark under the fence, but that two people had beaten him, one with fangs and red hair, and the other a fat man...

- Oh, like a cat?

“Yes, yes, yes,” the administrator whispered, frozen with fear and looking around every second, and laid out further details of how he lived for about two days in apartment No. 50 as a vampire gunner, who almost caused the death of financial director Rimsky...

At this time, Rimsky, brought on the Leningrad train, was brought in. However, this gray-haired old man, shaking with fear, mentally upset, in whom it was very difficult to recognize the former financial director, never wanted to tell the truth and turned out to be very stubborn in this sense. Rimsky claimed that he did not see any Gella in the window in his office at night, nor did he see Varenukha, but he simply felt ill, and unconscious he left for Leningrad. Needless to say, the sick financial director ended his testimony with a request to be locked up in an armored cell.

Annushka was arrested while attempting to hand a ten-dollar bill to a cashier at a department store on Arbat. Annushka’s story about people flying out of the window of a house on Sadovaya and about the horseshoe, which Annushka, according to her, picked up in order to present to the police, was listened to attentively.

– Was the horseshoe really gold with diamonds? - they asked Annushka.

“Should I not know diamonds,” answered Annushka.

- But he gave you chervonets, as you say?

“Shouldn’t I know the chervonets,” answered Annushka.

- Well, when did they turn into dollars?

“I don’t know what dollars are, and I haven’t seen any dollars,” Annushka answered shrilly, “we are within our rights!” They gave us a reward, we buy chintz with it... - and then she started talking nonsense about the fact that she is not responsible for the house management, which has created an evil spirit on the fifth floor, from which there is no life.

Here the investigator waved his pen at Annushka, because everyone was pretty tired of her, and wrote her a pass on the green piece of paper, after which, to everyone’s delight, Annushka disappeared from the building.

Then a whole row of people walked in a line, and among them was Nikolai Ivanovich, who had just been arrested solely due to the stupidity of his jealous wife, who let the police know in the morning that her husband had disappeared. Nikolai Ivanovich did not really surprise the investigation by putting on the table a jester's certificate stating that he had spent time at Satan's ball. In his stories about how he carried Margarita Nikolaevna’s naked housekeeper through the air to go swimming somewhere in hell and about the previous appearance of a naked Margarita Nikolaevna in the window, Nikolai Ivanovich deviated somewhat from the truth. So, for example, he did not consider it necessary to mention that he came into the bedroom with a discarded shirt in his hands and that he called Natasha Venus. According to him, it turned out that Natasha flew out of the window, straddled him and dragged him out of Moscow...

“Obeying violence, I was forced to submit,” said Nikolai Ivanovich and ended his tales with a request not to say a word about this to his wife. Which is what he was promised.

The testimony of Nikolai Ivanovich made it possible to establish that Margarita Nikolaevna, as well as her housekeeper Natasha, disappeared without any trace. Measures were taken to find them.

This is how Saturday morning was marked by an investigation that never stopped for a second. At that time, completely impossible rumors arose and spread in the city, in which a tiny fraction of truth was embellished with the most magnificent lies. They said that there was a show at the Variety Show, after which two thousand spectators rushed out into the street in their mother's clothes, that a printing house of counterfeit papers of the magic type on Sadovaya Street was raided, that some gang stole five managers in the entertainment sector, but that the police Now I found everyone, and much more that I don’t even want to repeat.

Meanwhile, the time was approaching lunch, and then, where the investigation was being carried out, phone call. Sadova was informed that the damned apartment again showed signs of life in it. It was said that the windows were opened from the inside, that the sounds of a piano and singing could be heard from it, and that a black cat was seen sitting on the windowsill basking in the sun.

At about four o'clock on a hot day, a large company of men dressed in civilian clothes disembarked from three cars, a little before reaching house number 302 bis on Sadovaya Street. Here the large group that arrived split into two small ones, and one went through the gateway of the house and the courtyard straight into the sixth front door, and the other opened the usually boarded up small door leading to the back door, and both began to climb separate stairs to apartment No. 50.

At this time, Koroviev and Azazello, and Koroviev in his usual attire, and not at all in a festive evening dress, were sitting in the dining room of the apartment, finishing breakfast. Woland, as usual, was in the bedroom, and where the cat was is unknown. But judging by the roar of pots coming from the kitchen, it could be assumed that Behemoth was there, fooling around as usual.

- What are those steps on the stairs? - Koroviev asked, playing with a spoon in a cup of black coffee.

“And they are coming to arrest us,” Azazello answered and drank a glass of cognac.

“Ah, well, well,” Koroviev responded to this.

Meanwhile, those climbing the main staircase were already on the third floor landing. There were two plumbers tinkering with a steam heating harmonica. Those walking exchanged expressive glances with the plumbers.

“Everyone is home,” one of the plumbers whispered, tapping the pipe with a hammer.

Then the man in front openly took out a black Mauser from under his coat, and the other, next to him, took out master keys. In general, those going to apartment No. 50 were properly equipped. Two of them had thin, easily unfurled silk nets in their pockets. Another one has a lasso, another one has gauze masks and ampoules of chloroform.

In one second, the front door to apartment No. 50 was opened, and everyone who was walking found themselves in the hallway, and the door slamming in the kitchen at that time showed that the second group from the back door had also arrived in a timely manner.

This time, if not complete, then still some kind of luck was evident. People instantly scattered throughout all the rooms and found no one anywhere, but in the dining room they found the remains of a seemingly abandoned breakfast, and in the living room on the mantelpiece, next to a crystal jug, sat a huge black cat. He held a primus stove in his paws.

In complete silence, those who entered the living room contemplated this cat for quite a long time.

“Hm-yes... it’s really great,” whispered one of the visitors.

“I’m not being naughty, I’m not bothering anyone, I’m fixing the primus stove,” the cat said with an unfriendly frown, “and I also consider it my duty to warn that the cat is an ancient and inviolable animal.”

“Exceptionally clean work,” whispered one of those who entered, and the other said loudly and clearly:

- Well, sir, untouchable ventriloquist cat, come here. The silk net turned and fluttered, but the one who threw it, to the complete surprise of everyone, missed and grabbed only the jug, which immediately broke with a ringing sound.

“Remiz,” the cat yelled, “hurray!” - and then he, putting the Primus aside, snatched the Browning from behind his back. He instantly pointed it at the person standing closest to him, but before the cat could shoot, fire blazed in his hand, and along with the shot from the Mauser, the cat fell headfirst from the mantelpiece onto the floor, dropping the Browning and throwing the Primus stove.

“It’s over,” the cat said in a weak voice and languidly stretched out in a bloody puddle, “get away from me for a second, let me say goodbye to the earth.” O my friend Azazello! - the cat groaned, bleeding, - where are you? The cat turned his fading eyes towards the door to the dining room, “you didn’t come to my aid at the time of the unequal battle.” You left poor Hippopotamus, exchanging him for a glass of – admittedly very good – cognac! Well, let my death fall on your conscience, and I bequeath to you my Browning...

“Network, network, network,” they whispered worriedly around the cat. But the net, God knows why, got caught in someone’s pocket and didn’t come out.

“The only thing that can save a mortally wounded cat,” said the cat, “is a sip of gasoline...” and, taking advantage of the confusion, he kissed the round hole in the primus stove and drank gasoline. Immediately the blood from under the upper left paw stopped flowing. The cat jumped up alive and in good spirits, grabbed the primus stove under his arm, jumped with it back onto the fireplace, and from there, tearing apart the wallpaper, climbed up the wall and in two seconds found himself high above those who had entered, sitting on a metal cornice.

Instantly his hands grabbed the curtain and tore it off along with the cornice, causing the sun to pour into the shadowed room. But neither the fraudulently recovered cat nor the primus stove fell down. The cat, without parting with the primus, managed to wave through the air and jump onto the chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

- Stepladder! - they shouted from below.

- I challenge you to a duel! - the cat yelled, flying overhead on a swinging chandelier, and then the Browning was again in his paws, and he placed the primus between the branches of the chandelier. The cat took aim and, flying like a pendulum over the heads of those who came, opened fire on them. Crystal fragments from the chandelier fell onto the floor, the mirror on the fireplace cracked with stars, plaster dust flew, spent cartridges bounced across the floor, the glass in the windows burst, and gasoline began to splash from the bullet-ridden stove. Now there was no question of taking the cat alive, and those who came accurately and furiously shot back at him with Mausers in the head, stomach, chest and back. The shooting caused panic on the asphalt in the yard.

But this shooting did not last long and began to subside on its own. The fact is that she did not cause any harm to either the cat or the visitors. No one was not only killed, but even wounded; everyone, including the cat, remained completely unharmed. One of those who came, to finally check this, fired about five at the head of the accursed animal, and the cat smartly responded with a whole clip. And the same thing - it made no impression on anyone. The cat was swaying in the chandelier, the scope of which was decreasing, for some reason blowing into the barrel of the Browning and spitting on its paw. Those standing below in silence had an expression of complete bewilderment on their faces. This was the only, or one of the only, case when the shooting turned out to be completely invalid. One could, of course, assume that the cat’s Browning was some kind of toy, but this certainly could not be said about the Mausers that came. The cat's first wound, of which there was clearly no doubt, was nothing more than a trick and a swinish pretense, just like the drinking of gasoline.

We made another attempt to get the cat. A lasso was thrown, it caught on one of the candles, and the chandelier fell off. Her blow seemed to shake the entire building of the house, but it did no good. Those present were showered with shrapnel, and the cat flew through the air and sat high under the ceiling on the top of the gilded frame of the fireplace mirror. He had no intention of running away and even, on the contrary, sitting in relative safety, started another speech.

“I don’t understand at all,” he said from above, “the reasons for such harsh treatment of me...

And then this speech at the very beginning was interrupted by a heavy, low voice from out of nowhere:

- What's going on in the apartment? They're stopping me from studying.

- Well, of course, Behemoth, damn him!

- Messire! Saturday. The sun is bowing. It is time.

“Sorry, I can’t talk anymore,” said the cat from the mirror, “we have to go.” “He threw his Browning and broke both glasses in the window. Then he splashed gasoline down, and this gasoline ignited by itself, throwing out a wave of flame all the way to the ceiling.

It caught fire somehow unusually, quickly and strongly, in a way that doesn’t happen even with gasoline. Now the wallpaper began to smoke, the torn curtain on the floor caught fire, and the frames of the broken windows began to smolder. The cat sprang back, meowed, jumped from the mirror to the windowsill and disappeared behind it along with his primus stove. Shots were heard outside. A man sitting on an iron fire escape at the level of the jeweler's windows fired at the cat as it flew from window sill to window sill, heading towards the corner drainpipe of a house that was, as it was said, built in peace. The cat climbed up to the roof through this pipe.

There, unfortunately, he was also fired upon in vain by the guards guarding the chimneys, and the cat disappeared into the setting sun that flooded the city.

At that time, the parquet floor in the apartment burst into flames under the feet of those who came, and in the fire, in the place where the cat was lying with a feigned wound, the corpse of the former Baron Meigel appeared, growing ever denser, with his chin raised upward, with glassy eyes. There was no longer any way to get him out. Jumping on the burning slabs of parquet, slapping their palms on their smoking shoulders and chests, those in the living room retreated into the study and the hallway. Those in the dining room and bedroom ran out through the corridor. Those who were in the kitchen came running and rushed into the hallway. The living room was already full of fire and smoke. While walking, someone managed to dial the fire department’s telephone number and briefly shout into the receiver:

- Sadovaya, three hundred and two bis!

It was impossible to linger any longer. The flames poured into the hallway. It became difficult to breathe.

As soon as the first wisps of smoke emerged from the broken windows of the enchanted apartment, desperate human cries were heard in the courtyard:

- Fire, fire, we're burning!

In different apartments of the building, people began shouting into their phones:

- Sadovaya! Sadovaya, three hundred two encore!

While heart-frightening bells were heard on Sadovaya on long red cars speeding quickly from all parts of the city, people rushing in the courtyard saw how, along with the smoke, three dark, seemingly male silhouettes and one silhouette of a naked woman flew out of the window of the fifth floor women.

Whether these silhouettes existed or whether they were just imagined by the fear-stricken residents of the ill-fated house on Sadovaya, of course, cannot be said with certainty. If they were, where they went directly, no one knows either. We also cannot say where they separated, but we know that about a quarter of an hour after the fire started on Sadovaya, a long citizen in a checkered suit and with him a large black cat appeared at the mirrored doors of Torgsin on the Smolensk market.

Deftly weaving among the passers-by, the citizen opened the outer door of the store. But then a small, bony and extremely unfriendly doorman blocked his way and said irritably:

- You can't do it with cats.

“I’m sorry,” the tall one rattled and put his gnarled hand to his ear, like someone who was hard of hearing, “with cats, are you talking?” Where do you see the cat?

For some reason the misanthrope doorman did not like this couple of visitors. “We only have currency,” he wheezed, looking irritably from under his shaggy, moth-eaten gray eyebrows.

“My dear,” the long one rattled, his eye sparkling from a broken pince-nez, “how do you know that I don’t have it?” Do you judge by the suit? Never do this, most precious guardian! You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that. At least re-read the story of the famous caliph Harun al-Rashid. But in this case, putting this story aside temporarily, I want to tell you that I will complain about you to the manager and tell him such things about you that you would not have to leave your post between the sparkling mirrored doors.

Here they first looked around, and then in a ringing voice, heard in all corners, Koroviev announced:

- Wonderful store! Very, very good store!

The audience turned around from the counters and for some reason looked in amazement at the speaker, although he had every reason to praise the store.

Hundreds of pieces of chintz of the richest colors were visible in the shelf cages. Behind them were piled calicoes and chiffons and tailor-made cloth. Entire stacks of boxes of shoes stretched into the horizon, and several civilian women sat on low chairs, their right foot in an old, shabby shoe, and their left foot in a new sparkling pump, which they stomped anxiously into the rug. Somewhere in the depths around the corner they were singing and playing gramophones.

And this department is magnificent,” Koroviev solemnly admitted, “and the foreigner is handsome,” he benevolently pointed his finger at the lilac back.

“No, Fagot, no,” Behemoth answered thoughtfully, “you, my friend, are mistaken.” There is something missing in the face of the lilac gentleman, in my opinion.

The lilac back trembled, but probably by accident, for the foreigner could not understand what Koroviev and his companion were saying in Russian.

- Karoshi? – the lilac buyer asked sternly.

“Worldwide,” answered the seller, coquettishly picking under the skin with the tip of a knife.

“I love Karoshi, but I don’t like bad ones,” the foreigner said sternly.

- Of course! – the seller answered enthusiastically.

Here our friends moved away from the foreigner with his salmon to the edge of the pastry counter.

“It’s hot today,” Koroviev turned to the young, red-cheeked saleswoman and did not receive any answer from her. - How much are tangerines? - Koroviev asked her then.

“Thirty kopecks a kilo,” answered the saleswoman.

“Everything bites,” Koroviev noted with a sigh, “eh, eh...” He thought a little more and invited his companion: “Eat, Behemoth.”

The fat man took his primus stove under his arm, took possession of the top tangerine in the pyramid and, immediately devouring it with its skin, began to grab the second one.

The saleswoman was seized with mortal horror.

-Are you crazy? - she cried, losing her blush, - hand over the check! Check! - and she dropped the candy tongs.

“Darling, darling, beauty,” Koroviev hissed, rolling over the counter and winking at the saleswoman, “we don’t have currency today... well, what can you do!” Well, I swear to you, next time, and certainly no later than Monday, we will give everything back clean. We are not far from here, on Sadovaya, where the fire is.

The sellers behind the fish counter were petrified with their knives in their hands, the lilac foreigner turned to the robbers, and it was immediately discovered that Behemoth was wrong, the lilac one was missing something in his face, but, on the contrary, it was rather unnecessary - hanging cheeks and running eyes.

Having turned completely yellow, the saleswoman sadly shouted to the whole store: “Palosich!” Palosic!

- Palosich! - the desperate cry was repeated behind the confectionery counter, and behind the fish counter a salesman in a goatee barked:

-What are you doing, you bastard?!

- Whistle!

At the corner of Smolensk, a doorman flew out of the mirrored doors and began to let out an ominous whistle. The public began to surround the scoundrels, and then Koroviev entered into action.

- Citizens! - he shouted in a vibrating thin voice, - what is this being done? Ass? Let me ask you about this! Poor man,” Koroviev let his voice tremble and pointed to Behemoth, who immediately put on a tearful face, “the poor man spends the whole day repairing the primus stove; he was hungry... But where would he get the currency?

Pavel Iosifovich, usually reserved and calm, shouted at this sternly:

- Give it up! – and waved impatiently into the distance. Then the trills at the doors began to sound more cheerful. But Koroviev, not embarrassed by Pavel Iosifovich’s introduction, continued:

- Where? – I ask everyone a question! He is exhausted with hunger and thirst! He's feeling hot. Well, the poor man took a tangerine to try. And the whole price of this tangerine is three kopecks. And now they are whistling like nightingales in the forest in spring, disturbing the police, distracting them from their work. Can he? A? - and then Koroviev pointed to the lilac fat man, which caused the strongest anxiety to appear on his face - who is he? A? Where did he come from? For what? Are we bored without him? Did we invite him, or what? Of course,” the former regent yelled at the top of his voice, sarcastically twisting his mouth, “he, you see, is in a formal lilac suit, he’s all swollen from salmon, he’s all stuffed with currency, but for ours, for ours?! I'm sad! Bitterly! Bitterly! - Koroviev howled, like the best man at an ancient wedding.

– Thank you, faithful friend, you stood up for the victim! - a miracle happened. A most decent, quiet old man, poorly but cleanly dressed, who was buying three almond cakes in the confectionery department, suddenly changed. His eyes sparkled with battle fire, he turned purple, threw the bag of cakes on the floor and shouted:

- Is it true! - in a childishly thin voice. Then he grabbed a tray, throwing off the remains of the chocolate Eiffel Tower destroyed by Hippopotamus, swung it, tore off the foreigner’s hat with his left hand, and with his right hand hit the foreigner’s bald head with the flat of the tray. There was a sound like what happens when sheet metal is thrown onto the ground from a truck. The fat man, turning white, fell on his back and sat down in a tub of Kerch herring, knocking out a fountain of herring brine. Immediately the second miracle happened. Lilac, having fallen into the tub, cried out in pure Russian, without signs of any accent:

- They are killing! The police! Bandits are killing me! - apparently as a result of shock, suddenly mastering a hitherto unknown language.

Then the doorman's whistle stopped, and in the crowds of excited shoppers, two police helmets flashed closer. But the insidious Behemoth, like a gang dousing a shop in a bathhouse, doused the confectionery counter with gasoline from a primus stove, and it burst into flames on its own. The flames shot upward and ran along the counter, devouring the beautiful paper ribbons on the fruit baskets. The saleswomen started running from behind the counter, screaming, and as soon as they jumped out from behind it, the linen curtains on the windows burst into flames and gasoline caught fire on the floor. The audience, immediately raising a desperate cry, rushed back from the confectionery, crushing the no longer needed Pavel Iosifovich, and from behind the fish, the sellers ran in single file with their sharpened knives at a trot to the back door. The lilac citizen, having torn himself out of the tub, covered in herring slurry, rolled over the salmon on the counter and followed them. The glass in the exit mirrored doors rang and fell, squeezed out by the fleeing people, and both scoundrels - Koroviev and the glutton Behemoth - disappeared somewhere, but where it was impossible to understand. Later, eyewitnesses who were present at the start of the fire in Torgsin on Smolensk said that it was as if both hooligans flew up to the ceiling and there they both burst, like children’s balloons. It is, of course, doubtful that this is exactly the case, but what we don’t know, we don’t know.

- Bah! Why, this is a writers' house. You know, Behemoth, I’ve heard a lot of good and flattering things about this house. Pay attention, my friend, to this house! It’s nice to think that under this roof a whole abyss of talent is hiding and ripening.

“Like pineapples in greenhouses,” said Hippopotamus, and in order to better admire the cream-colored house with columns, he climbed onto the concrete base of the cast-iron grate.

“That’s absolutely true,” Koroviev agreed with his inseparable companion, “and a sweet horror comes to your heart when you think that in this house the author of “Don Quixote” or “Faust” or, damn me, “The Dead” is now keeping up. shower"! A?

“It’s scary to think,” confirmed Behemoth.

“Yes,” continued Koroviev, “amazing things can be expected in the greenhouses of this house, which united under its roof several thousand ascetics who decided to selflessly give their lives to the service of Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia. Can you imagine what a fuss will arise when one of them first presents the reading public with “The Inspector General” or, at worst, “Eugene Onegin”!

“And it’s very simple,” Behemoth confirmed again.

“Yes,” Koroviev continued and raised his finger with concern, “but!” But, I say and repeat it - but! If some microorganism does not attack these delicate greenhouse plants, it will not undermine them at the roots, if they do not rot! And this happens with pineapples! Oh-oh-oh, how it happens!

“By the way,” inquired Behemoth, sticking his round head through the hole in the grate, “what are they doing on the veranda?”

“They’re having lunch,” Koroviev explained. “I’ll add to this, my dear, that this is a very nice and inexpensive restaurant.” Meanwhile, like any tourist before further travel, I feel the urge to have a snack and drink a big, ice-cold mug of beer.

“Me too,” answered Behemoth, and both scoundrels walked along the asphalt path under the linden trees straight to the veranda of the guilt-free restaurant.

– Your ID? - She looked with surprise at Koroviev’s pince-nez, as well as at Behemoth’s primus stove, and at Behemoth’s torn elbow.

– I offer you a thousand apologies, what kind of identification? – Koroviev asked in surprise.

-Are you writers? – in turn, the citizen asked.

“Of course,” Koroviev answered with dignity.

– Your ID? – the citizen repeated.

“My darling...” Koroviev began tenderly.

“I’m not a charm,” the citizen interrupted him.

“Oh, what a pity,” Koroviev said disappointedly and continued: well, if you don’t want to be a charm, which would be very pleasant, you don’t have to be one. So, to make sure that Dostoevsky is a writer, is it really necessary to ask him for his identification? Yes, take any five pages from any of his novels, and without any identification you will be convinced that you are dealing with a writer. Yes, I believe that he didn’t even have any identification! How do you think? – Koroviev turned to Behemoth.

“I bet it wasn’t,” he answered, putting the primus stove on the table next to the book and wiping the sweat on his sooty forehead with his hand.

“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.

“Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.

“Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently. “I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. – Dostoevsky is immortal!

“Your IDs, citizens,” said the citizen.

“For mercy, this is, after all, funny,” Koroviev did not give up, a writer is not determined by his certificate, but by what he writes! How do you know what plans are swarming in my head? Or in this head? - and he pointed to the head of Behemoth, from which he immediately took off his cap, as if so that the citizen could examine it better.

“Let me in, citizens,” she said, already nervous.

Koroviev and Behemoth stood aside to let through some writer in a gray suit, a summer white shirt without a tie, the collar of which lay wide on the collar of his jacket, and with a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded affably, as he walked, he put some squiggles in the book placed before him and proceeded to the veranda.

“Alas, not for us, not for us,” Koroviev said sadly, “but he will get this ice-cold mug of beer that we, poor wanderers, dreamed of so much with you, our situation is sad and difficult, and I don’t know what to do.”

The hippopotamus just threw up his hands bitterly and put his cap on his round head, overgrown with thick hair, very similar to cat fur. And at that moment, a quiet but authoritative voice sounded above the citizen’s head:

- Let me in, Sofya Pavlovna.

The citizen with the book was amazed: in the green trellis, the white tailcoat chest and wedge-shaped beard of the filibuster appeared. He looked friendly at the two dubious ragamuffins and, even more than that, made inviting gestures to them. The authority of Archibald Archibaldovich was a thing that was seriously felt in the restaurant that he was in charge of, and Sofya Pavlovna humbly asked Koroviev:

- What's your last name?

“Panaev,” he answered politely. The citizen wrote down this name and raised a questioning glance at Behemoth.

“Skabichevsky,” he squeaked, for some reason pointing to his primus stove. Sofya Pavlovna wrote this down too and pushed the book towards the visitors so that they could sign it. Koroviev wrote “Skabichevsky” against Panaev, and Behemoth wrote “Panaev” against Skabichevsky. Archibald Archibaldovich, completely astonishing Sofya Pavlovna, smiling seductively, led the guests to the best table at the opposite end of the veranda, to where the thickest shadow lay, to a table near which the sun was playing merrily in one of the slots in the trellis greenery. Sofya Pavlovna, blinking in amazement, studied for a long time the strange entries made in the book by unexpected visitors.

Archibald Archibaldovich surprised the waiters no less than Sofya Pavlovna. He personally pushed the chair away from the table, inviting Koroviev to sit down, blinked at one, whispered something to the other, and two waiters began to fuss around the new guests, one of whom placed his primus stove next to his rusty shoe on the floor. The old tablecloth with yellow spots immediately disappeared from the table, a white tablecloth, like a Bedouin burnous, flew up in the air, crunching with starch, and Archibald Archibaldovich was already whispering quietly, but very expressively, leaning towards Koroviev’s very ear:

- What will I treat you with? I have a special little balyk... I tore it off at the architects' congress...

“You... uh... give us a snack... uh...” Koroviev hummed benevolently, leaning back on his chair.

“I understand,” Archibald Archibaldovich answered meaningfully, closing his eyes.

Having seen how the restaurant chef treated very dubious visitors, the waiters abandoned all doubts and got down to business seriously. One was already bringing a match to Behemoth, who had taken a cigarette butt out of his pocket and put it in his mouth, the other flew up, clinking green glass and displaying shot glasses, lafitniks and thin-walled glasses from the devices, from which it is so good to drink narzan under the awning... no, looking ahead, let's say ...drinking Narzan under the awning of Griboyedov’s unforgettable veranda.

The fiction writer Petrakov-Sukhovey and his wife, Finishing the Pork Escalope, dining at the next table, with the observation characteristic of all writers, noticed the advances of Archibald Archibaldovich and was very, very surprised. And his wife, a very respectable lady, simply became jealous of the pirate for Koroviev and even tapped with a spoon... - and what is it, they say, they are detaining us... it’s time to serve ice cream! What's the matter?

However, having sent Petrakova a seductive smile, Archibald Archibaldovich sent a waiter to her, but he himself did not leave his dear guests. Ah, Archibald Archibaldovich was smart! And he is observant, perhaps, no less than the writers themselves. Archibald Archibaldovich knew about the session at the Variety Show, and heard about many other incidents of these days, but, unlike others, he did not ignore either the word “checkered” or the word “cat”. Archibald Archibaldovich immediately guessed who his visitors were. And having guessed, naturally, he did not quarrel with them. But Sofya Pavlovna is good! After all, you have to invent this - to block these two’s path to the veranda! But what can I ask her?

Arrogantly poking with a spoon into the soggy creamy ice cream, Petrakova watched with dissatisfied eyes as the table in front of two peas dressed as some kind of jesters was, as if by magic, overgrown with dishes. The lettuce leaves, washed to a shine, were already sticking out from behind the vase with fresh caviar... In a moment, a foggy silver bucket appeared on a specially moved separate table...

Only after making sure that everything was done honorably, only when a closed frying pan in which something was grumbling arrived in the hands of the waiters, Archibald Archibaldovich allowed himself to leave the two mysterious visitors, and only then after whispering to them:

- Sorry! For a minute! I’ll personally take care of the fillets. He flew away from the table and disappeared into the interior passage of the restaurant. If any observer could trace Archibald Archibaldovich's further actions, they would undoubtedly seem somewhat mysterious to him.

The chef did not go to the kitchen to watch the fillets, but to the restaurant’s pantry. He opened it with his key, locked himself in it, took out two weighty balyks from the ice chest, carefully so as not to stain the cuffs, packed them in newsprint, carefully tied them with string and put them aside. Then, in the next room, he checked that his silk-lined summer coat and hat were in place, and only after that he proceeded to the kitchen, where the cook was carefully cutting up the fillets that the pirate had promised to the guests.

It must be said that there was nothing strange or mysterious in all of Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions, and only a superficial observer could consider such actions strange. Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions followed completely logically from everything that had gone before. Knowledge of recent events, and mainly Archibald Archibaldovich’s phenomenal instinct, told the chef of Griboyedov’s restaurant that the lunch of his two visitors, although plentiful and luxurious, would be extremely short. And his instinct, which never deceived the filibuster, did not let him down this time either.

While Koroviev and Behemoth were clinking glasses with their second glass of excellent, cold Moscow double purification vodka, the sweaty and excited chronicler Boba Kandalupsky, known in Moscow for his amazing omniscience, appeared on the veranda and immediately sat down next to the Petrakovs. Putting his swollen briefcase on the table, Boba immediately put his lips into Petrakov’s ear and whispered some very seductive things into him. Madame Petrakova, languishing with curiosity, put her owl's ear to Boba's plump, oily lips. And he, occasionally looking around furtively, kept whispering and whispering, and one could hear individual words, like these:

- I swear on your honor! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya,” Boba lowered his voice even more, “they don’t take bullets!” Bullets... bullets... gasoline, fire... bullets...

“These liars who spread nasty rumors,” Madame Petrakova boomed in her contralt voice indignantly, somewhat louder than Boba would have liked, “they should be explained!” Well, never mind, it will be so, they will be put in order! What harmful lies!

- What lies, Antonida Porfiryevna! - exclaimed Boba, upset by the disbelief of the writer's wife, and whistled again: - I'm telling you, bullets don't take... And now there's a fire... They're in the air... in the air, - Boba hissed, not suspecting that those he was talking about tells, they sit next to him, enjoying his whistle. However, this pleasure soon ceased. Three men with tight belts around their waists, wearing leggings and with revolvers in their hands, quickly emerged from the interior passage of the restaurant onto the veranda. The one in front shouted loudly and terribly:

- Don `t move! - and immediately all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming for the heads of Koroviev and Behemoth. Both of those being fired at immediately melted into the air, and a column of fire hit the awning from the primus stove. It was as if a gaping mouth with black edges appeared in the tent and began to crawl in all directions. The fire, rushing through it, rose to the very roof of Griboyedov’s house. Folders with papers lying on the second floor window in the editorial room suddenly flared up, and behind them the curtain caught, and then the fire, humming as if someone was fanning it, went in pillars inside the aunt’s house.

The latest adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth

Deftly weaving among the passers-by, the citizen opened the outer door of the store. But then a small, bony and extremely unfriendly doorman blocked his way and said irritably:

Cats are not allowed.

“I’m sorry,” the tall one rattled and put his gnarled hand to his ear, like someone who was hard of hearing, “with cats, are you talking?” Where do you see the cat?

For some reason the misanthrope doorman did not like this couple of visitors.

“We only have currency,” he wheezed, looking irritably from under his shaggy, moth-eaten gray eyebrows.

Wonderful store! Very, very good store!

The audience turned around from the counters and for some reason looked in amazement at the speaker, although he had every reason to praise the store.

And this department is magnificent,” Koroviev solemnly admitted, “and the foreigner is handsome,” he benevolently pointed his finger at the lilac back.

No, Bassoon, no,” Behemoth answered thoughtfully, “you, my friend, are mistaken.” There is something missing in the face of the lilac gentleman, in my opinion.

The lilac back trembled, but probably by accident, for the foreigner could not understand what Koroviev and his companion were saying in Russian.

Karoshi? - the lilac buyer asked sternly.

Worldwide,” answered the seller, coquettishly picking under the skin with the tip of a knife.

I love Karoshi, but I don’t like the bad one,” the foreigner said sternly.

Why! - the seller answered enthusiastically.

“It’s hot today,” Koroviev turned to the young, red-cheeked saleswoman and did not receive any answer from her. - How much are tangerines? - Koroviev asked her then.

“Thirty kopecks a kilo,” answered the saleswoman.

“Everything bites,” Koroviev remarked with a sigh, “eh, eh...” He thought a little more and invited his companion: “Eat, Behemoth.”

The fat man took his primus stove under his arm, took possession of the top tangerine in the pyramid and, immediately devouring it with its skin, began to grab the second one.

The saleswoman was seized with mortal horror.

Are you crazy? - she cried, losing her blush, - hand over the check! Check! - and she dropped the candy tongs.

Having turned completely yellow, the saleswoman sadly shouted to the whole store:

Palosic! Palosic!

The audience from the calico department began to flock to this cry, and Behemoth moved away from the confectionery temptations and put his paw into a barrel with the inscription: “Selected Kerch herring,” pulled out a couple of herrings and swallowed them, spitting out the tails.

Palosic! - the desperate cry was repeated behind the confectionery counter, and behind the fish counter a salesman in a goatee barked:

What are you doing, you bastard?!

Pavel Iosifovich was already hurrying to the scene of action. It was personable man in a clean white coat, like a surgeon, and with a pencil sticking out of his pocket. Pavel Iosifovich, apparently, was an experienced person. Seeing the tail of the third herring in Behemoth’s mouth, he instantly assessed the situation, decisively understood everything and, without entering into any arguments with the impudent people, waved his hand into the distance, commanding:

A doorman flew out of the mirrored doors at the corner of Smolensky and began to let out an ominous whistle. The public began to surround the scoundrels, and then Koroviev entered into action.

Pavel Iosifovich, usually reserved and calm, shouted at this sternly:

Give it up! - and waved into the distance impatiently. Then the trills at the doors began to sound more cheerful.

But Koroviev, not embarrassed by Pavel Iosifovich’s speech, continued:

They are killing! The police! Bandits are killing me! - apparently as a result of shock, suddenly mastering a hitherto unknown language.

“Like pineapples in greenhouses,” said Behemoth, and, in order to better admire the cream-colored house with columns, he climbed onto the concrete base of the cast-iron grate.

Absolutely right,” Koroviev agreed with his inseparable companion, “and a sweet horror rolls up to your heart when you think that in this house the future author of “Don Quixote”, or “Faust”, or, damn me, “The Dead” is now keeping up. shower"! A?

“It’s scary to think,” confirmed Behemoth.

And it’s very simple,” Behemoth again confirmed.

By the way,” inquired Hippopotamus, sticking his round head through the hole in the bars, “what are they doing on the veranda?”

“Me too,” answered Behemoth, and both scoundrels walked along the asphalt path under the linden trees straight to the veranda of the restaurant, which did not sense trouble.

Your credentials? - She looked with surprise at Koroviev’s pince-nez, as well as at Behemoth’s primus stove, and at Behemoth’s torn elbow.

I offer you a thousand apologies, what kind of identification? - Koroviev asked, surprised.

Are you writers? - the citizen asked in turn.

“Of course,” Koroviev answered with dignity.

Your credentials? - the citizen repeated.

My beauty... - Koroviev began tenderly.

“I’m not a charm,” the citizen interrupted him.

I bet it wasn’t,” he answered, putting the Primus stove on the table next to the book and wiping the sweat on his sooty forehead with his hand.

“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.

Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.

Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently.

“I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. - Dostoevsky is immortal!

Your certificates, citizens,” said the citizen.

Let us in, citizens,” she said, already nervous.

Let me in, Sofya Pavlovna.

What's your last name?

Panaev,” he answered politely. The citizen wrote down this name and raised a questioning glance at Behemoth.

What will I treat you with? I have a special little balyk... I tore it off at the architects' congress...

You... uh... give us a snack anyway... uh... - Koroviev hummed benevolently, leaning back on his chair.

“I understand,” Archibald Archibaldovich answered meaningfully, closing his eyes.

Sorry! For a minute! I’ll personally take care of the fillets.

I swear on your honor! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya,” Boba lowered his voice even more, “they don’t take bullets.” Bullets... bullets... gasoline, fire... bullets...

Chapter 28 from the novel The Master and Margarita. Essay “Analysis of the episode “The Last Adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth” in the novel “The Master and Margarita”

See also Bulgakov Mikhail - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Main characters

Other characters

Part one

Chapter 1. Never talk to strangers

Chapter 2. Pontius Pilate

Chapter 3. Seventh proof

Chapter 4. The Chase

Chapter 5. There was an affair in Griboedov

Chapter 6. Schizophrenia, as was said

Chapter 7. Bad apartment

Chapter 8. The duel between the professor and the poet

Chapter 9. Koroviev's things

Chapter 10. News from Yalta

Chapter 11. Ivan's split

Chapter 12. Black magic and its exposure

Chapter 13. The appearance of a hero

Chapter 14. Glory to the Rooster!

Chapter 15. Nikanor Ivanovich's dream

Chapter 16. Execution

Chapter 17. Restless day

Chapter 18. Unlucky Visitors

Part two

Chapter 19. Margarita

Chapter 20. Azazello cream

Chapter 21. Flight

Chapter 22. By candlelight

Chapter 23. Satan's Great Ball

Chapter 24. Extracting the Master

Chapter 25. How the procurator tried to save Judas

Chapter 26. Burial

Chapter 27. The end of apartment No. 50

Chapter 29. The fate of the master and Margarita is determined

Chapter 30. It's time! It's time!

Chapter 31. On the Sparrow Hills

Chapter 32. Farewell and eternal shelter

Epilogue

Conclusion

Novel test

Retelling rating

Master and Margarita Michael Bulgakov

Chapter 27 End of apartment N 50

Master and Margarita
Michael Bulgakov

Chapter 27
End of apartment N 50