Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita

objected :

     ' Now there you exaggerate. I know more or less exactly  what I'm going

to be doing this evening. Provided of course that a brick doesn't fall on my

head in the street. . .'

     '  A  brick is  neither  here  nor  there,'  the  stranger  interrupted

persuasively. ' A  brick  never falls on anyone's head. You in particular, I

assure you, are in no danger from that. Your death will be different.'

     ' Perhaps you  know exactly how I am going to die? '  enquired  Berlioz

with  understandable sarcasm at the ridiculous  turn  that the  conversation

seemed to be taking. ' Would you like to tell me?'

     '  Certainly,' rejoined  the stranger. He looked Berlioz up and down as

though he were  measuring  him for  a suit and  muttered  through  his teeth

something that sounded like : ' One, two . . . Mercury in the second house .

. . the moon waning . . . six-- accident . . .  evening--seven . . . '  then

announced loudly and cheerfully : ' Your 'head will be cut off!'

     Bezdomny turned to the stranger with a wild, furious stare and  Berlioz

asked with a sardonic grin :

     ' By whom? Enemies? Foreign spies? '

     '  No,' replied their companion, ' by  a Russian woman, a member of the

Komsomol.'

     '  Hm,' grunted Berlioz, upset by the foreigner's little  joke. ' That,

if you don'c mind my saying so, is most improbable.'

     ' I beg your pardon,' replied the foreigner, ' but it is so.  Oh yes, I

was going to ask you--what are you doing this evening, if it's not a secret?

'

     '  It's no secret.  From here I'm  going  home, and then at ten o'clock

this evening there's a meeting at the massolit and I shall be in the chair.'

     ' No, that is absolutely impossible,' said the stranger firmly.

     'Why?'

     ' Because,' replied  the foreigner and  frowned  up at  the sky  where,

sensing the oncoming cool of the evening, the  birds were flying to roost, '

Anna has already  bought  the sunflower-seed oil, in fact she has  not  only

bought it, but has already spilled it. So that meeting will not take place.'

     With this,  as  one might imagine, there was silence  beneath  the lime

trees.

     ' Excuse  me,'  said  Berlioz  after a  pause  with  a  glance  at  the

stranger's jaunty beret, ' but what on  earth has  sunflower-seed oil got to

do with it... and who is Anna? '

     ' I'll tell you what sunflower-seed  oil's  got  to  do  with it,' said

Bezdomny  suddenly,  having  obviously  decided  to  declare  war  on  their

uninvited  companion. ' Have you, citizen, ever had to spend  any time in  a

mental hospital? '

     ' Ivan! ' hissed Mikhail Alexandrovich.

     But  the stranger was not  in the least offended  and  gave a  cheerful

laugh. '  Yes, I have, I have,  and more than once! ' he exclaimed laughing,

though the  stare that he  gave the poet  was  mirthless. ' Where haven't  I

been! My only regret is that I didn't stay  long enough to ask the professor

what  schizophrenia  was.  But  you  are  going  to find that  out  from him

yourself, Ivan Nikolayich!'

     ' How do you know my name? '

     ' My  dear  fellow, who doesn't  know you?  '  With this the  foreigner

pulled the previous day's  issue of  The Literary Gazette  out of his pocket

and Ivan Nikolayich saw his own  picture on the front page above some of his

own verse. Suddenly what had delighted  him  yesterday  as proof of his fame

and popularity no longer gave the poet any pleasure at all.

     ' I beg your pardon,' he said,  his face darkening. ' Would  you excuse

us for a minute? I should like a word or two with my friend.'

     '  Oh, with  pleasure!  ' exclaimed  the stranger. ' It's so delightful

sitting here under the trees and I'm  not in a hurry to  go anywhere,  as it

happens.'

     '  Look  here, Misha,'  whispered the  poet  when he had drawn  Berlioz

aside.  ' He's not just a foreign tourist, he's a spy. He's a Russian emigre

and he's trying to catch  us  out. Ask him for his papers  and then he'll go

away . . .'

     ' Do you  think  we should? ' whispered Berlioz anxiously,  thinking to

himself--' He's right, of course . . .'

     ' Mark my words,' the poet whispered to him. ' He's pretending to be an

idiot so that he can trap us with some  compromising  question. You can hear

how he speaks Russian,' said the poet, glancing sideways and watching to see

that the stranger was  not eavesdropping. '  Come on,  let's arrest  him and

then we'll get rid of him.'

     The poet led Berlioz by the arm back to the bench.

    The unknown  man  was no longer sitting on it  but standing  beside it,

holding a booklet in a dark grey binding, a fat envelope made of good  paper

and a visiting card.

     ' Forgive  me, but in  the  heat of our argument I forgot  to introduce

myself. Here is my  card, my passport and  a letter inviting  me to come to

Moscow for consultations,' said the stranger gravely, giving both writers  a

piercing stare.

     The  two men were embarrassed. ' Hell, he overheard us .  . . ' thought

Berlioz, indicating with a polite gesture that  there  was no need  for this

show of documents. Whilst the stranger was  offering them to the editor, the

poet managed to catch sight of the visiting card. On it in foreign lettering

was the word '  Professor ' and  the initial letter of a surname which began

with a'W'.

     ' Delighted,' muttered  the  editor awkwardly as  the foreigner put his

papers  back into his pocket. Good relations having been re-established, all

three sat down again on the bench.

     ' So you've been invited here as a consultant, have  you,  professor? '

asked Berlioz.

     ' Yes, I have.'

     ' Are you German? ' enquired Bezdomny.

     '  I? '  rejoined  the professor and  thought for  a  moment.  ' Yes, I

suppose I am German. . . . ' he said.

     ' You speak excellent Russian,' remarked Bezdomny.

     ' Oh, I'm something of a polyglot. I know a great number of languages,'

replied the professor.

     ' And what is your particular field of work? ' asked Berlioz.

     ' I specialise in black magic.'

     ' Like hell you do! . . . ' thought Mikhail Alexandrovich.

     '  And ... and you've been  invited here to give advice  on  that? ' he

asked with a gulp.

     '  Yes,'  the professor  assured him, and went  on : ' Apparently  your

National   Library  has  unearthed   some   original  manuscripts  of   the

ninth-century necromancer  Herbert Aurilachs. I  have been asked to decipher

them. I am the only specialist in the world.'

     ' Aha! So you're a historian? ' asked Berlioz in a tone of considerable

relief and respect.

     '   Yes,   I   am  a   historian,'   adding  with  apparently  complete

inconsequence, ' this evening a  historic event is going to take place  here

at Patriarch's Ponds.'

     Again  the editor and the poet showed signs of utter amazement, but the

professor beckoned to them and when both had bent their heads towards him he

whispered :

     ' Jesus did exist, you know.'

     '  Look, professor,'  said  Berlioz, with  a forced smile,  ' With  all

respect to you as a scholar we take a different attitude on that point.'

     '  It's  not a question  of having  an attitude,' replied  the  strange

professor. ' He existed, that's all there is to it.'

     ' But one must have some proof. . . . ' began Berlioz.

     ' There's  no need  for any  proof,' answered  the professor. In a  low

voice, his foreign accent vanishing altogether, he began :

     ' It's  very  simple--early in  the morning on the  fourteenth  of  the

spring month of  Nisan the Procurator of Judaea, Pontius Pilate,  in a white

cloak lined with blood-red...

 

 

 

        2. Pontius Pilate

 

 

 

     Early in the morning on the fourteenth of the spring month of Nisan the

Procurator of Judaea, Pontius Pilate, in a white cloak lined with blood-red,

emerged with his shuffling cavalryman's walk into  the arcade connecting the

two wings of the palace of Herod the Great.

     More than anything else in the world the Procurator  hated the smell of

attar of roses. The omens  for  the day were  bad,  as this  scent  had been

haunting him since dawn.

     It seemed to  the Procurator  that the very cypresses and palms in  the

garden were exuding the smell of roses, that this damned stench of roses was

even mingling with the  smell of leather tackle and  sweat  from his mounted

bodyguard.

     A  haze  of smoke was  drifting  towards  the  arcade across  the upper

courtyard of the garden, coming from the wing at the rear of the palace, the

quarters of the first  cohort of the XII Legion ; known as the ' Lightning',

it had been stationed  in Jerusalem since the Procurator's arrival. The same

oily perfume of roses  was mixed with the acrid  smoke that  showed that the

centuries' cooks had started to prepare breakfast.

     ' Oh gods, what are you punishing me for? . . . No, there's no doubt, I

have it again, this terrible incurable pain . .  . hemicrania, when half the

head aches  . . .  there's no cure for it, nothing helps. ... I must try not

to move my head. . . . '

     A  chair had already been  placed on the mosaic floor by  the fountain;

without a glance round, the Procurator  sat in it and stretched out his hand

to one  side.  His secretary deferentially laid a piece of  parchment in his

hand. Unable to restrain a grimace  of agony the Procurator gave  a fleeting

sideways look  at its  contents, returned the parchment to his secretary and

said painfully:

     ' The  accused comes  from Galilee,  does he? Was  the case sent to the

tetrarch? '

     ' Yes, Procurator,' replied the secretary. ' He declined to confirm the

finding of the court and passed the Sanhedrin's sentence of death to you for

confirmation.'

     The Procurator's cheek twitched and he said quietly :

     ' Bring in the accused.'

     At once two legionaries  escorted a man of  about twenty-seven from the

courtyard, under  the  arcade and  up to the balcony, where  they placed him

before the Procurator's chair. The  man  was dressed in  a shabby, torn blue

chiton.  His  head  was covered  with a  white  bandage  fastened round  his

forehead, his hands tied behind his back. There was a large bruise under the

man's left  eye and a scab of dried  blood  in  one corner of his mouth. The

prisoner stared at the Procurator with anxious curiosity.

     The Procurator was silent at first, then asked quietly in Aramaic:

     '  So  you  have been inciting the people  to  destroy  the  temple  of

Jerusalem? '

     The Procurator sat as though carved in stone, his lips barely moving as

he pronounced the words. The Procurator was like stone from fear of  shaking

his fiendishly aching head.

     The  man  with  bound  hands  made  a slight move  forwards  and  began

speaking:

     ' Good man! Believe me . . . '

     But  the Procurator, immobile as before and without raising  his voice,

at once interrupted him :

     '  You call me good man? You are making  a mistake. The rumour about me

in Jerusalem is that I am a raving monster and that is absolutely  correct,'

and he added in the same monotone :

     ' Send centurion Muribellum to me.'

     The  balcony seemed to  darken when the centurion of the first century.

Mark surnamed Muribellum, appeared  before  the Procurator. Muribellum was a

head taller  than  the  tallest soldier in the legion  and  so broad  in the

shoulders that he completely obscured the rising sun.

     The Procurator said to the centurion in Latin:

     ' This criminal calls  me " good  man ". Take him away for a minute and

show him the proper way to address me. But do not mutilate him.'

     All  except  the  motionless  Procurator watched Mark  Muribellum as he

gestured to the prisoner  to follow him. Because of his height people always

watched  Muribellum wherever he went. Those  who  saw him for the first time

were inevitably fascinated  by  his disfigured face : his nose had once been

smashed by a blow from a German club.

     Mark's heavy boots resounded on the mosaic, the bound  man followed him

noiselessly. There  was complete  silence  under  the arcade  except for the

cooing of doves in the garden below and the water singing its seductive tune

in the fountain.

     The  Procurator  had a sudden urge to get up  and put his temples under

the stream of  water until they were numb. But he knew  that even that would

not help.

     Having  led the prisoner out of the  arcade into the garden, Muribellum

took a whip from the hands of a legionary standing by the plinth of a bronze

statue and with a gentle swing struck the prisoner across the shoulders. The

centurion's  movement  was  slight,  almost  negligent,  but  the bound  man

collapsed instantly as though his legs had been struck from under him and he

gasped for air. The colour fled from his face and his eyes clouded.

     With  only  his left hand Mark lifted the fallen  man into  the air  as

lightly  as  an  empty sack, set him on his feet and said in  broken,  nasal

Aramaic:

     ' You call  a Roman Procurator "  hegemon "  Don't  say  anything else.

Stand to attention. Do you understand or must I hit you again? '

     The prisoner  staggered helplessly, his colour  returned, he gulped and

answered hoarsely :

     ' I understand you. Don't beat me.'

     A  minute later he was again  standing in front of the  Procurator. The

harsh, suffering voice rang out:

     ' Name?'

     ' Mine? ' enquired the prisoner hurriedly,  his whole being  expressing

readiness to answer sensibly and to forestall any further anger.

     The Procurator said quietly :

     ' I know  my  own name. Don't pretend to be stupider than you are. Your

name.'

     ' Yeshua,' replied the prisoner hastily.

     ' Surname?'

     ' Ha-Notsri.'

     ' Where are you from? '

     ' From the town of  Gamala,' replied the  prisoner, nodding his head to

show that far over there to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala.

     ' Who are you by birth? '

     '  I  don't know exactly,' promptly  answered the  prisoner,  ' I don't

remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian. . . .'

     ' Where is your fixed abode? '

     ' I have no home,' said the prisoner  shamefacedly,  ' I move from town

to town.'

     ' There is a shorter way of saying that--in  a word you are a vagrant,'

said the Procurator and asked: ' Have you any relations?'

     ' No, none. Not one in the world.'

     ' Can you read and write? ' ' Yes.'

     ' Do you know any language besides Aramaic?

     ' ' Yes. Greek.'

     One swollen  eyelid was  raised and  a  pain-clouded  eye stared at the

prisoner. The other eye remained closed. Pilate said in Greek :

     ' So you intended to destroy the temple building and incited the people

to do so?'

     '  Never,  goo  . . . ' Terror  flashed across the prisoner's  face for

having so nearly said the wrong word. '  Never  in my  life, hegemon, have I

intended to destroy the temple. Nor have I ever tried to persuade  anyone to

do such a senseless thing.'

     A look of amazement came over the  secretary's  face as  he bent over a

low table recording the evidence. He raised his head but immediately lowered

it again over his parchment.

     '  People of all kinds are  streaming  into the city for the feast-day.

Among them  there are magicians, astrologers, seers and murderers,' said the

Procurator in a monotone. '  There are also liars.  You, for instance, are a

liar.  It is clearly written down : he incited people to destroy the temple.

Witnesses have said so.'

     '  These  good people,'  the  prisoner  began,  and  hastily  adding  '

hegemon', he went on, ' are unlearned and have confused everything I said. I

am beginning to fear that this confusion will last for a very long time. And

all because he untruthfully wrote down what I said.'

     There was silence.  Now  both  pain-filled eyes stared  heavily  at the

prisoner.

     '  I  repeat,  but  for the  last  time--stop  pretending  to be  mad,

scoundrel,'  said  Pilate softly and evenly.  ' What has been  written  down

about you is little enough, but it is sufficient to hang you.'

     '  No, no,  hegemon,' said the prisoner, straining  with the  desire to

convince. '  This man follows  me everywhere with  nothing but  his goatskin

parchment  and  writes  incessantly. But  I once caught  a  glimpse  of that

parchment  and I was horrified. I had  not said a  word  of what was written

there.  I  begged him--  please burn this parchment of yours! But he tore it

out of my hands and ran away.'

     ' Who was he? ' enquired Pilate in a strained voice and put his hand to

his temple.

     '  Matthew  the  Levite,'  said  the  prisoner  eagerly.  '  He  was  a

tax-collector. I first met him  on the road to Bethlehem at the corner where

the road skirts a fig orchard and I started  talking to him. At first he was

rude and even insulted  me, or rather he  thought  he was  insulting  me  by

calling me  a dog.'  The  prisoner laughed. ' Personally I see nothing wrong

with that animal so I was not offended by the word. . . .'

     The secretary stopped  taking notes and glanced surreptitiously, not at

the prisoner, but at the Procurator.

     ' However,  when he had  heard me out he grew milder,' went on Yeshua,'

and in the end  he threw his money into the  road and said that he would  go

travelling with me. . . .'

     Pilate  laughed with one cheek. Baring  his  yellow  teeth  and turning

fully round to his secretary he said :

     ' Oh,  city of Jerusalem! What tales you have to tell! A tax-collector,

did you hear, throwing away his money!'

     Not  knowing what reply was expected  of him,  the  secretary chose  to

return Pilate's smile.

     '  And he said that henceforth he  loathed his money,'  said Yeshua  in

explanation of Matthew the Levite's strange  action,  adding  : ' And  since

then he has been my companion.'

     His  teeth  still  bared in  a  grin,  the  Procurator glanced  at  the

prisoner, then at the sun rising  inexorably over the  equestrian statues of

the hippodrome far below to his left, and  suddenly in a moment of agonising

nausea it occurred to him that the simplest thing would be  to  dismiss this

curious rascal from his balcony with no more than two words :  ' Hang him. '

Dismiss the body-guard  too, leave the arcade and go indoors, order the room

to be darkened, fall on to his couch, send for cold water, call for  his dog

Banga in a  pitiful  voice  and complain  to  the dog  about his hemicrania.

Suddenly  the tempting thought of  poison flashed  through  the Procurator's

mind.

     He stared dully at the prisoner for a while, trying painfully to recall

why this man  with  the bruised  face was  standing  in front of him  in the

pitiless  Jerusalem morning sunshine and what further  useless questions  he

should put to him.

     '  Matthew the  Levite?  ' asked the suffering man in  a  hoarse voice,

closing his eyes.

     ' Yes, Matthew the Levite,' came the grating, high-pitched reply.

 

     '  So you did make a speech about the temple to the crowd in the temple

forecourt? '

     The  voice  that  answered  seemed  to  strike  Pilate on the forehead,

causing him inexpressible torture and it said:

     '  I  spoke, hegemon, of how the temple of the old beliefs  would  fall

down and the new temple of truth  would be built up.  I  used those words to

make my meaning easier to understand.'

     ' Why should a tramp like you upset the crowd in the bazaar by  talking

about truth, something of which you have no conception? What is truth? '

     At this the Procurator thought: ' Ye gods! This is a court of law and I

am asking him an irrelevant question . . . my mind no longer obeys me. . . .

' Once more he had  a  vision  of a goblet of dark liquid. ' Poison,  I need

poison.. .. ' And again he heard the voice :

     ' At this moment the  truth is  chiefly  that  your head is aching  and

aching so hard  that you are having cowardly thoughts about  death. Not only

are you in no condition to talk to me, but it even hurts  you to look at me.

This makes me seem to be your torturer, which distresses me. You cannot even

think and you can  only long for your dog, who is clearly the  only creature

for  whom  you  have any  affection. But  the pain will  stop  soon and your