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First, let me tell you the secret the Master didn’t want to tell Ivan. His beloved’s name was Margarita Nikolayevna. Everything the Master said about her to the poor poet was absolutely true. His description of his beloved was accurate. She was beautiful and intelligent. And one more thing: it can be said with assurance that many women would have given anything to trade places with Margarita Nikolayevna. The childless, thirty-year-old Margarita was married to an outstanding specialist who had made an extremely important discovery of national significance. Her husband was young, handsome, kind, honest, and adored his wife. Margarita Nikolayevna and her husband occupied the entire upper floor of a beautiful house in a garden on one of the small streets near the Arbat. An enchanting spot! Anyone who wishes to can take a look at the garden and see for himself. Let him ask me and I’ll give him the address and show him the way—the house is still standing to this very day.
Margarita Nikolayevna had plenty of money. Margarita Nikolayevna could buy anything that took her fancy. Her husband’s circle of friends included some interesting people. Margarita Nikolayevna never touched a primus stove. Margarita Nikolayevna was ignorant of the horrors of life in a communal apartment. In a word … was she happy? Not for a minute! She hadn’t been happy since marrying at age nineteen and going to live in her husband’s house. Gods, my gods! What did this woman want? What did this woman want, whose eyes always burned with an incomprehensible fire? This witch with a slight squint in one eye, who adorned herself with mimosa in springtime—what did she want? I do not know. I have no idea. Evidently, she spoke the truth when she said it was the Master she needed and not the Gothic-style house, the private garden, or the money. She loved him, she was telling the truth.
“Messire,” answered Azazello, “permit me to speak. Two outsiders have appeared: a beautiful woman who keeps whimpering and begs permission to stay with her mistress, and also her, pardon my expression, hog.”
“Beautiful women have strange ways,” remarked Woland.
“It’s Natasha, Natasha!” exclaimed Margarita.
“Well, let her stay with her mistress. And send the hog—to the cooks!”
“To be butchered?” cried Margarita in fright. “Have mercy, Messire. That’s Nikolai Ivanovich, our downstairs neighbor. You see, there’s been a mistake here, she rubbed him with that cream …”
“Just a minute,” said Woland, “who the hell is going to butcher him and what the devil for? Just let him sit with the cooks for a while, that’s all! You’ll agree, I can’t very well let him into the ballroom!”
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“A handkerchief with a dark-blue border. The fact is that when she was a waitress in a cafe, her boss lured her into the storeroom one day, and nine months later she gave birth to a baby boy, carried him into the woods, stuffed the handkerchief in his mouth, and then buried him in the ground. At her trial she said she had nothing to feed the child.”
“And where’s the owner of the cafe?” asked Margarita.
“Your Majesty,” squeaked the cat suddenly from below. “Allow me to ask you: what does the owner have to do with this? He wasn’t the one who smothered the baby in the woods!”
“Please give me a certificate,” began Nikolai Ivanovich, looking around wildly, but speaking with great insistence, “stating where I spent last night.”
“For what purpose?” asked the cat sternly.
“To give to the police and to my wife,” was Nikolai Ivanovich’s firm response.
“We usually don’t give certificates,” said the cat with a frown, “but all right, for you we’ll make an exception.”
Before Nikolai Ivanovich could realize what was happening, the nude Hella was at the typewriter, taking dictation from the cat, “I hereby certify that the bearer of this note, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the night in question at Satan’s ball, having been lured there in a transportational capacity … Hella, put in parentheses! And write ‘hog.’ Signed—Behemoth.”
lol
“May I see your ID’s?” repeated the woman.
“My charming creature …” began Korovyov, tenderly.
“I am not a charming creature,” interrupted the woman.
“Oh, what a pity,” said Korovyov with disappointment, and he continued, “Well, then, if you do not care to be a charming creature, which would have been quite nice, you don’t have to be. But, here’s my point, in order to ascertain that Dostoevsky is a writer, do you really need to ask him for an ID? Just look at any five pages of any of his novels, and you will surely know, even without any ID, that you’re dealing with a writer. And I don’t suppose that he ever had any ID! What do you think?” Korovyov turned to Behemoth.
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” replied the latter, standing the primus stove on the table next to the register and wiping the sweat from his sooty brow.
“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizeness, who was becoming addled by Korovyov.
“Well, but how do you know, how do you know?” replied the latter.
“Dostoevsky is dead,” said the citizeness, but not very confidently.
“I protest!” exclaimed Behemoth hotly. “Dostoevsky is immortal!”
lol
“Nevertheless, you’ll have to reconcile yourself to the fact that I am,” retorted Woland with a twisted smile. “No sooner do you appear on the roof than you blab nonsense, and I’ll tell you what it is—it’s in your intonation. You pronounced your words as if you refuse to acknowledge the existence of either shadows or evil. But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and from living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You’re stupid.”