Discussion on Master & Margarita - Chapter 24

Chapter 24

In Woland’s bedroom everything was the same as it had been before the ball. Now they were all going to have dinner.

Margarita was too tired. Woland makes her sit, as before, by his side and asks whether she is too tired. She is given some drink and her vigour comes back.

Everyone is praising Margarita for the excellent job done by her.

The dinner goes on in a very happy atmosphere, amidst talks and laughter.

Margarita says that it is time for her to go back…

'What's your hurry?' asked Woland, politely but a bit drily. The rest kept silent, pretending to be occupied with the smoke-rings.

'Yes, it's time,' Margarita repeated, quite embarrassed by it, and looked around as if searching for some cape or cloak. She was suddenly embarrassed by her nakedness. She got up from the table. Woland silently took his worn-out and greasy dressing-gown from the bed, and Koroviev threw it over Margarita's shoulders.

'I thank you, Messire,' Margarita said barely audibly, and looked questioningly at Woland. In reply, he smiled at her courteously and indifferently. Black anguish somehow surged up all at once in Margarita's heart. She felt herself deceived. No rewards would be offered her for all her services at the ball, apparently, just as no one was detaining her. And yet it was perfectly clear to her that she had nowhere to go. The fleeting thought of having to return to her house provoked an inward

burst of despair in her. Should she ask, as Azazello had temptingly advised in the Alexandrovsky Garden? 'No, not for anything!' she said to herself.

'Goodbye, Messire,' she said aloud, and thought, 'I must just get out of here, and then I'll go to the river and drown myself.'

'Sit down now,' Woland suddenly said imperiously.

Margarita changed countenance and sat down.

'Perhaps you want to say something before you leave?'

'No, nothing, Messire,' Margarita answered proudly, 'except that if you still need me, I'm willing and ready to do anything you wish. I'm not tired in the least, and I had a very good time at the ball. So that if it were still going on, I would again offer my knee for thousands of gallows birds and murderers to kiss.' Margarita looked at Woland as if through a veil, her eyes filling with tears.

'True! You're perfectly right!' Woland cried resoundingly and terribly. That's the way!'

'That's the way!' Woland's retinue repeated like an echo.

`We've been testing you,' said Woland. 'Never ask for anything! Never for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They'll make the offer themselves, and give everything themselves. Sit down, proud woman,' Woland tore the heavy dressing-gown from Margarita and again she found herself sitting next to him on the bed. 'And so, Margot,' Woland went on, softening his voice, `what do you want for having been my hostess tonight? What do you wish for having spent the ball naked? What price do you put on your knee? What are your losses from my guests, whom you just called gallowsbirds? Speak! And speak now without constraint, for it is I who offer.'

Margarita's heart began to pound, she sighed heavily, started pondering something.

'Well, come, be braver!' Woland encouraged her. 'Rouse your fantasy, spur it on! Merely being present at the scene of the murder of that inveterate blackguard of a baron is worth a reward, particularly if the person is a woman. Well, then?'

Margarita's breath was taken away, and she was about to utter the cherished words prepared in her soul, when she suddenly turned pale, opened her mouth and stared: 'Frieda! ... Frieda,

Frieda!' someone's importunate, imploring voice cried in her ears, `my name is Frieda!' And Margarita, stumbling over the words, began to speak:

'So, that means ... I can ask ... for one thing?'

'Demand, demand, my donna,' Woland replied, smiling knowingly, 'you may demand one thing.'

Ah, how adroitly and distinctly Woland, repeating Margarita's words, underscored that 'one thing'!

Margarita sighed again and said:

'I want them to stop giving Frieda that handkerchief with which she smothered her baby.'

The cat raised his eyes to heaven and sighed noisily, but said nothing, Koroviev and Azazello were also taken aback.

Woland comments that it is within her own power to pardon Frieda and Margarita does the needful.

'Thank you, and farewell,' Margarita said, getting up.

'Well, Behemoth,' began Woland, 'let's not take advantage of the action of an impractical person on a festive night.' He turned to Margarita: 'And so, that does not count, I did nothing.

What do you want for yourself?'

Silence ensued, interrupted by Koroviev, who started whispering in Margarita's ear:

'Diamond donna, this time I advise you to be more reasonable! Or else fortune may slip away.'

'I want my beloved master to be returned to me right now, this second,' said Margarita, and her face was contorted by a spasm.

Here a wind burst into the room, so that the flames of the candles in the candelabra were flattened, the heavy curtain on the window moved aside, the window opened wide and revealed far away on high a full, not morning but midnight moon. A greenish kerchief of night-light fell from the window-sill to the floor, and in it appeared Ivanushka's night visitor, who called himself a master.

He was in his hospital clothes - robe, slippers and the black cap, with which he never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he glanced sidelong with a crazy amorousness at the lights of the candles, and the torrent of moonlight seethed around him.

With Master, now being retrieved, the things take place in a damage control mode. We shall see that Woland understands what all had happened to the Master and he starts punishing one by one all those who had betrayed and tortured him.

Let us see how does Woland go ahead with this task.

Master recognizes Margarita, but he gets scared when he sees unknown people surrounding him. He pushes Margarita away from him who is crying clinging to him.

Margarita urges him not to be afraid of anything.

Woland looks at Master and says that he has been tortured a lot. That was actually order of the day. He is in a way telling the readers that he was taken to the torture chamber after he disappeared that night.

Master is given a liquid to drink. After consuming three glasses he comes back to his normal self.

Woland asks him, “From where have you come now?” and when he says that he has come from the psychiatric clinic, Margarita bursts into tears and tells Woland that he is Master and that he deserves to be healed by Woland.

Master guesses whom is he talking to.

When Woland asks Master why does Margarita call him Master, he tells about the novel about Yeshua and Pontius Pilate…Woland wants to see the novel and when Master informs him that he has burnt it, Woland comments, “'Forgive me, but I don't believe you,' Woland replied, 'that cannot be: manuscripts don't burn.' He turned to Behemoth and said, 'Come on. Behemoth, let's have the novel.'

The cat instantly jumped off the chair, and everyone saw that he had been sitting on a thick stack of manuscripts. With a bow, the cat gave the top copy to Woland. Margarita trembled and cried out, again shaken to the point of tears:

'It's here, the manuscript! It's here!' She dashed to Woland and added in admiration:

'All-powerful! All-powerful!'

Woland then asks Margarita what does she want him to do.

Margarita's eyes lit up, and she said imploringly to Woland:

'Allow me to whisper something to him.'

Woland nodded his head, and Margarita, leaning to the master's ear, whispered something to him. They heard him answer her.

'No, it's too late. I want nothing more in my life, except to see you. But again I advise you to leave me, or you'll perish with me.'

'No, I won't leave you,' Margarita answered and turned to Woland:

'I ask that we be returned to the basement in the lane off the Arbat, and that the lamp be burning, and that everything be as it was.

Here the master laughed and, embracing Margarita's long-since-uncurled head, said:

'Ah, don't listen to the poor woman, Messire! Someone else has long been living in the basement, and generally it never happens that anything goes back to what it used to be.'

'Never happens, you say?' said Woland. That's true. But we shall try.'

And he called out: 'Azazello!'

At once there dropped from the ceiling on to the floor a bewildered and nearly delirious citizen in nothing but his underwear, though with a suitcase in his hand for some reason and wearing a cap. This man trembled with fear and kept cowering.

'Mogarych?' Azazello asked of the one fallen from the sky.

'Aloisy Mogarych,' the man answered, shivering. `Was it you who, after reading Latunsky's article about this man's novel, wrote a denunciation saying that he kept illegal literature?' asked Azazello.

The newly arrived citizen turned blue and dissolved in tears of repentance.

'You wanted to move into his rooms?' Azazello twanged as soulfully as he could.

Mogarych is hurled out of window, the rental book of Master’s flat is corrected, now it has Master’s name on it and it is lying in the drawer of house owner’s table.

The case papers of Master’s illness are destroyed so that there is no trace left of the patient in Room No. 118 of Stravinsky’s clinic. Master and Margarita are given their Passports.

Woland’s work is flawless.

Appears Natasha with Nikolai Ivanovich. She requests that she be allowed to remain witch. Mr Jack had proposed to her during the Ball. Her desire is fulfilled.

Nikolai Ivanovich wants to go back home. He wants a certificate showing where did he spend the previous night. He is given the certificate.

Then appears Varenukha. He admits that he could not become a vampire. At that time he had almost finished Rimsky but he is not blood thirsty.

Azazello warns him not to speak lies over the phone and he too disappears.

A big suitcase is brought. The manuscripts of Master’s novel are put into it. And then comes the parting moment. Bulgakov beautifully gives Woland’s vision of the Master’s future.

Actually these expressions of Woland have become prophetic. See, what does he say in addition to his eternal truth, “The Manuscripts don’t burn,”:

“After some silence, Woland said to the master:

'So it's back to the Arbat basement? And who is going to write? And the dreams, the inspiration?'

'I have no more dreams, or inspiration either,' replied the master. 'No one around me interests me, except her.' He again put his hand on Margarita's head. 'I'm broken, I'm bored, and I want to be in the basement.'

'And your novel? Pilate?'

'It's hateful to me, this novel,' replied the master, 'I went through too much because of it.'

'I implore you,' Margarita begged plaintively, 'don't talk like that. Why do you torment me? You know I put my whole life into this work.' Turning to Woland, Margarita also added: 'Don't listen to him, Messire, he's too worn out.'

'But you must write about something,' said Woland. 'If you've exhausted the procurator, well, then why not start portraying, say, this Aloisy ...'

The master smiled.

'Lapshennikova wouldn't publish that, and, besides, it's not interesting.'

'And what are you going to live on? You'll have a beggarly existence.'

'Willingly, willingly,' replied the master, drawing Margarita to him.

He put his arm around her shoulders and added: 'She'll see reason, she'll leave me ...'

'I doubt that,' Woland said through his teeth and went on: 'And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate goes to the basement with the intention of settling by the lamp and leading a beggarly existence?'

Margarita separated herself from the master and began speaking very ardently:

'I did all I could. I whispered the most tempting thing to him. And he refused.'

'I know what you whispered to him,' Woland retorted, 'but it is not the most tempting thing. And to you I say,' he turned, smiling, to the master, 'that your novel will still bring you surprises.'

'That's very sad,' replied the master.

'No, no, it's not sad,' said Woland, 'nothing terrible. Well, Margarita Nikolaevna, it has all been done. Do you have any claims against me?'

'How can you, oh, how can you, Messire! ...'

"Then take this from me as a memento,' said Woland, and he drew from under the pillow a small golden horseshoe studded with diamonds.

'No, no, no, why on earth!'

'You want to argue with me?' Woland said, smiling.

Since Margarita had no pockets in her cloak, she put the horseshoe in a napkin and tied it into a knot.”

Do you remember Annushka? The one who had spilled oil and Berlioz slipped and fell down on the rails?

Bulgakov shows us who this Annushka is what all she does.

Just when Margarita was coming down the stairs the horseshoe fell down on the stairs. It was picked up by Annushka. See, how daring and clever she is:

“…shortly before Margarita and the master left with their escort, a little dried-up woman carrying a can and a bag came out of apartment no.48, which was located just under the jeweller's wife's apartment. This was that same Annushka who on Wednesday, to Berlioz's misfortune, had spilled sunflower oil by the turnstile.

No one knew, and probably no one will ever know, what this woman did in Moscow or how she maintained her existence. The only thing known about her is that she could be seen every day with the can, or with bag and can together, in the kerosene shop, or in the market, or under the gateway, or on the stairs, but most often in the kitchen of apartment no.48, of which this Annushka was one of the tenants. Besides that and above all it was known that wherever she was or wherever she appeared, a scandal would at once break out, and, besides, that she bore the nickname of 'the Plague'.

Annushka the Plague always got up very early for some reason, and today something got her up in the wee hours, just past midnight. The key turned in the door, Annushka's nose stuck out of it, then the whole of her stuck out, she slammed the door behind her, and was about to set off somewhere when a door banged on the landing above, someone hurled down the stairs and, bumping into Annushka, flung her aside so that she struck the back of her head against the wall.

'Where's the devil taking you in nothing but your underpants?' Annushka shrieked, clutching her head.

The man in nothing but his underwear, carrying a suitcase and wearing a cap, his eyes shut, answered Annushka in a wild, sleepy voice:

'The boiler ... the vitriol... the cost of the whitewashing alone...' And, bursting into tears, he barked: 'Out!'

Here he dashed, not further down, but back up to where the window had been broken by the economist's foot, and out this window he flew, legs up, into the courtyard. Annushka even forgot about her head, gasped, and rushed to the window herself. She lay down on her stomach on the landing and stuck her head into the yard, expecting to see the man with the suitcase smashed to death on the asphalt, lit up by the courtyard lantern. But on the asphalt courtyard there was precisely nothing.

It only remained to suppose that a sleepy and strange person had flown out of the house like a bird, leaving not a trace behind him. Annushka crossed herself and thought: 'Yes, indeed, a nice little apartment, that number fifty! It's not for nothing people say ... Oh, a nice little apartment!'

Before she had time to think it through, the door upstairs slammed again, and a second someone came running down. Annushka pressed herself to the wall and saw a rather respectable citizen with a little beard, but, as it seemed to Annushka, with a slightly piggish face, dart past her and, like the first one, leave the house through the window, again without ever thinking of smashing himself on the asphalt. Annushka had already forgotten the purpose of her outing and stayed on the stairway, crossing herself, gasping, and talking to herself.

A third one, without a little beard, with a round, clean-shaven face, in a Tolstoy blouse, came running down a short while later and fluttered out the window in just the same way.

To Annushka's credit it must be said that she was inquisitive and decided to wait and see whether any new miracles would occur. The door above was opened again, and now a whole company started down, not at a run, but normally, as everybody walks. Annushka darted away from the window, went to her own door, opened it in a trice, hid behind it, and her eye, frenzied with curiosity, glittered in the chink she left for herself.

Someone, possibly sick or possibly not, but strange, pale, with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and some sort of robe, walked down with unsteady steps. He was led carefully under the arm by a lady in a black cassock, as it seemed to Annushka in the darkness. The lady was possibly barefoot, possibly wearing some sort of transparent, obviously imported, shoes that were torn to shreds.

Pah! Shoes my eye! ... The lady is naked! Yes, the cassock has been thrown right over her naked body! ... `A nice little apartment! ...' Everything in Annushka's soul sang in anticipation of what she was going to tell the neighbours the next day.

The strangely dressed lady was followed by a completely naked one carrying a suitcase, and next to the suitcase a huge black cat was knocking about. Annushka almost squeaked something out loud, rubbing her eyes. Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping foreigner, blind in one eye, without a jacket, in a white formal waistcoat and tie. This whole company marched downstairs past Annushka. Here something thudded on the landing.

As the steps died away, Annushka slipped like a snake from behind the door, put the can down by the wall, dropped to the floor on her stomach, and began feeling around. Her hands came upon a napkin with something heavy in it. Annushka's eyes started out of her head when she unwrapped the package.

Annushka kept bringing the precious thing right up to her eyes, and these eyes burned with a perfectly wolfish fire. A whirlwind formed in Annushka's head:

'I see nothing, I know nothing! ... To my nephew? Or cut it in pieces? ... I could pick the stones out, and then one by one: one to Petrovka, another to Smolensky ... And - I see nothing, I know nothing!'

Annushka hid the found object in her bosom, grabbed the can, and was about to slip back into her apartment, postponing her trip to town, when that same one with the white chest, without a jacket, emerged before her from devil knows where and quietly whispered:

'Give me the horseshoe and napkin!'

`What napkin horseshoe?' Annushka asked, shamming very artfully. 'I don't know about any napkins. Are you drunk, citizen, or what?'

With fingers as hard as the handrails of a bus, and as cold, the white-chested one, without another word, squeezed Annushka's throat so that he completely stopped all access of air to her chest. The can dropped from Annushka's hand on to the floor. After keeping Annushka without air for some time, the jacketless foreigner removed his fingers from her throat. Gulping air, Annushka smiled.

'Ah, the little horseshoe?' she said. This very second! So it's your little horseshoe? And I see it lying there in a napkin, I pick it up so that no one takes it, and then just try finding it!'

Having received the little horseshoe and napkin, the foreigner started bowing and scraping before Annushka, shook her hand firmly, and thanked her warmly, with the strongest of foreign accents, in the following terms:

'I am deeply grateful to you, ma'am. This little horseshoe is dear to me as a memento. And, for having preserved it, allow me to give you two hundred roubles.' And he took the money from his waistcoat pocket at once and handed it to Annushka.

She, smiling desperately, could only keep exclaiming:

'Ah, I humbly thank you! Merci! Merci!'

The generous foreigner cleared a whole flight of stairs in one leap, but, before decamping definitively, shouted from below, now without any accent:

'You old witch, if you ever pick up somebody else's stuff again, take it to the police, don't hide it in your bosom!'

The car was waiting for them. The bird-driver takes them to the Arbat Apartment.

Margarita is still not able to believe that all this had actually happened, that she was with her Master.

Master was sleeping in the inner room. She was going through the most favourite of lines from Master’s novel:

 'The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator.....' Yes, the darkness...

And it is time to go back to Pontius Pilate and Yerushalem!