Excerpt from the novel "The Master and Margarita", Mikhail Bulgakov. The best quotes from "The Master and Margarita" The Master and Margarita all fragments

I'm too old for this nonsense! I spent half my life fighting aging, and it won. Why did I waste my time so mediocrely? Why didn't I immediately admit defeat and try to just live? I don't know. All my life I pretended to be different: more sociable, more liberated sexually, younger, more stylish. I've spent tens of thousands of hours covering my gray hair and weighing it. And finally I told myself - enough is enough. A year ago I stopped dyeing my hair. I gave up dieting, and now I only make sure that my diet is complete - one, and tasty - two. I've gained 10 kilos and I don't care. I did not renew my contract with the fitness club, because in fact, of all the physical activities, I only like running in the park in the morning, while also walking the dog. I stopped spending crazy money on cosmetics because for everyday makeup I need foundation, eyebrow pencil and mascara. I'm 62 years old, but I feel like I'm 30 years old. No, I'm not crazy, I see all these wrinkles, sagging sides and age spots. I'm talking about the internal state, the state of the soul. I just don’t kill myself anymore in the field of “bring your body into a state that matches your sense of self.” People like me are said to be “not a fighter.” And I don't understand why this is bad. Yes, I chose the path of least resistance: to be happy just like that, and not in spite of it. I'm too old to: 1. “Be quiet.” I no longer remain silent when I see or feel injustice. Of course, I sometimes protested before, but mostly I defended other people. Not yourself. Now this is over: if I am offended, I am no longer silent. 2. “How I look from the outside.” One day my husband and I went shopping and on the way we stopped at a trendy cafe. Sitting down at the table and looking around, I realized that my hair had not been washed, my jeans could use a wash, and at the next table there were four smartly dressed women, each wearing a designer scarf. Previously, in such a situation, I would have fallen through the ground. Now I understand that the taste of my food and my coffee does not depend on what they think of me. 3. "Secret pleasures." They are no longer there - all my pleasures have become obvious. Yes, I like Lady Gaga, and I don't hide it anymore. Yes, I sometimes read cheap detective stories and women's tearjerker novels. This is my second time watching The Walking Dead and I'm loving it. 4. “Uncomfortable shoes.” To hell. By the way, it happens that I have socks from different pairs. 5. “Sorry, my place is not cleaned.” I don't apologize anymore. Want to know why my house is a mess? Because I'm not in the mood to clean right now. And also because I'm disorganized and a bit of a slob. 6. "Unnecessary things." We recently realized that half of the junk in our house has no use, is not pleasing to the eye and is of no historical value. We vowed to get rid of at least half of our belongings in the next two years. 7. “Spend time with people you don’t like.” I realized this a couple of years ago when, as usual, I was having lunch with a group of my colleagues. I don't like them. They are evil, petty, and we have completely different interests. When they started bickering as usual about sports or politics or some work project, I looked at them and thought: what am I doing here? And she stopped going to lunch with them. Life is too short to waste it on people you don't like. 8. “Everyone has something good in them.” Sometimes people act like jerks. And probably, if you look hard enough, you can find positive qualities even in the biggest idiot. The question is, why do I need this? People always have a choice. If they decided they were going to be jerks, so be it. I respect their choice. So I no longer look for the good in them, I just move as far away as possible. What is your list? Michelle Combs

Chapter 2. Pontius Pilate

In a white cloak with a bloody lining and a shuffling cavalry gait, early in the morning of the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, the procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate, came out into the steep colonnade between the two wings of the palace of Herod the Great.

More than anything else, the procurator hated the smell of rose oil, and everything now foreshadowed a bad day, since this smell began to haunt the procurator from dawn. It seemed to the procurator that the cypresses and palm trees in the garden emitted a pink smell, that a pink stream was mixed with the smell of leather and the convoy. From the wings in the rear of the palace, where the first cohort of the Twelfth Lightning Legion, which had arrived with the procurator in Yershalaim, was stationed, smoke drifted into the colonnade through the upper platform of the garden, and the same greasy smoke was mixed with the bitter smoke, which indicated that the cooks in the centuries had begun to prepare dinner. pink spirit. Oh gods, gods, why are you punishing me?

“Yes, no doubt! It’s her, her again, the invincible, terrible disease of hemicrania, which makes half your head hurt. There is no remedy for it, there is no salvation. I’ll try not to move my head.”

A chair had already been prepared on the mosaic floor by the fountain, and the procurator, without looking at anyone, sat down in it and extended his hand to the side.

The secretary respectfully placed a piece of parchment into this hand. Unable to resist a painful grimace, the procurator glanced sideways at what was written, returned the parchment to the secretary and said with difficulty:

– A suspect from Galilee? Did they send the matter to the tetrarch?

“Yes, procurator,” answered the secretary.

- What is he?

“He refused to give an opinion on the case and sent the death sentence to the Sanhedrin for your approval,” the secretary explained.

The procurator twitched his cheek and said quietly:

- Bring the accused.

And immediately, from the garden platform under the columns to the balcony, two legionnaires brought in a man of about twenty-seven and placed him in front of the procurator’s chair. This one was dressed in an old and torn blue chiton. His head was covered with a white bandage with a strap around his forehead, and his hands were tied behind his back. The man had a large bruise under his left eye and an abrasion with dried blood in the corner of his mouth. The man brought in looked at the procurator with anxious curiosity.

He paused, then quietly asked in Aramaic:

- So it was you who persuaded the people to destroy the Yershalaim temple?

At the same time, the procurator sat as if made of stone, and only his lips moved slightly when pronouncing the words. The procurator was like a stone, because he was afraid to shake his head, blazing with hellish pain.

The man with his hands tied leaned forward a little and began to speak:

- A kind person! Trust me…

But the procurator, still not moving and not raising his voice at all, immediately interrupted him:

- Are you calling me a kind person? You're wrong. In Yershalaim, everyone whispers about me that I am a ferocious monster, and this is absolutely true,” and he added just as monotonously: “Centurion Rat-Slayer to me.”

It seemed to everyone that it had darkened on the balcony when the centurion, commander of the special centurion, Mark, nicknamed the Rat Slayer, appeared before the procurator.

Rat Slayer was a head taller than the tallest soldier in the legion and so broad in the shoulders that he completely blocked out the still low sun.

The procurator addressed the centurion in Latin:

- The criminal calls me “a good man.” Take him out of here for a minute, explain to him how to talk to me. But don't maim.

And everyone, except the motionless procurator, followed Mark the Ratboy, who waved his hand to the arrested man, indicating that he should follow him.

In general, everyone followed the rat-slayer with their eyes, wherever he appeared, because of his height, and those who saw him for the first time, because of the fact that the centurion’s face was disfigured: his nose had once been broken by a blow from a German club.

Mark's heavy boots tapped on the mosaic, the bound man followed him silently, complete silence fell in the colonnade, and one could hear pigeons cooing in the garden area near the balcony, and the water sang an intricate, pleasant song in the fountain.

The procurator wanted to get up, put his temple under the stream and freeze like that. But he knew that this would not help him either.

Taking the arrested man out from under the columns into the garden, Ratboy took the whip from the hands of the legionnaire standing at the foot of the bronze statue and, swinging it slightly, hit the arrested man on the shoulders. The centurion's movement was careless and easy, but the bound one instantly fell to the ground, as if his legs had been cut off, choking on air, the color ran away from his face and his eyes became meaningless. Mark, with one left hand, easily pulled him to his feet and spoke nasally, poorly pronouncing Aramaic words:

– Call the Roman procurator hegemon. No other words to say. Stand still. Do you understand me or should I hit you?

The arrested man staggered, but controlled himself, the color returned, he took a breath and answered hoarsely:

- I understood you. Do not hit me.

A minute later he again stood in front of the procurator.

- My? - the arrested person hastily responded, expressing with all his being his readiness to answer intelligently and not cause further anger.

The procurator said quietly:

- Mine - I know. Don't pretend to be more stupid than you are. Your.

“Yeshua,” the prisoner hastily answered.

- Do you have a nickname?

- Ga-Nozri.

- Where you're from?

“From the city of Gamala,” answered the prisoner, indicating with his head that somewhere far away, to the right of him, in the north, there was the city of Gamala.

-Who are you by blood?

“I don’t know for sure,” the arrested man answered briskly, “I don’t remember my parents.” They told me that my father was Syrian...

– Where do you live permanently?

“I don’t have permanent housing,” the prisoner answered shyly, “I travel from city to city.”

“This can be expressed briefly, in one word - a tramp,” said the procurator and asked: “Do you have any relatives?”

- There is no one. I'm alone in the world.

- Do you know how to read and write?

– Do you know any language other than Aramaic?

- I know. Greek.

The swollen eyelid lifted, the eye, covered with a haze of suffering, stared at the arrested man. The other eye remained closed.

Pilate spoke in Greek:

– So you were going to destroy the temple building and called on the people to do this?

Here the prisoner perked up again, his eyes stopped expressing fear, and he spoke in Greek:

“I, sir...” here horror flashed in the prisoner’s eyes because he almost misspoke. “I, the hegemon, never in my life intended to destroy the temple building and did not persuade anyone to do this senseless action.

Surprise was expressed on the face of the secretary, hunched over the low table and taking down the testimony. He raised his head, but immediately bowed it again to the parchment.

– Many different people flock to this city for the holiday. There are magicians, astrologers, soothsayers and murderers among them,” the procurator said monotonously, “and there are also liars.” For example, you are a liar. It is clearly written down: he persuaded to destroy the temple. This is what people testify.

“These good people,” the prisoner spoke and hastily added: “hegemon,” he continued: “they didn’t learn anything and they all confused what I said.” In general, I am beginning to fear that this confusion will continue for a very long time. And all because he writes me down incorrectly.

There was silence. Now both sick eyes looked heavily at the prisoner.

“I repeat to you, but for the last time: stop pretending to be crazy, robber,” Pilate said softly and monotonously, “there is not much recorded against you, but what is written down is enough to hang you.”

“No, no, hegemon,” said the arrested man, straining himself in the desire to convince, “he walks and walks alone with a goat’s parchment and writes continuously.” But one day I looked into this parchment and was horrified. I said absolutely nothing of what was written there. I begged him: burn your parchment for God’s sake! But he snatched it from my hands and ran away.

- Who it? – Pilate asked disgustedly and touched his temple with his hand.

“Matthew Levi,” the prisoner readily explained, “he was a tax collector, and I met him for the first time on the road in Bethphage, where the fig garden overlooks the corner, and I got into conversation with him. Initially, he treated me with hostility and even insulted me, that is, he thought that he was insulting me by calling me a dog,” here the prisoner grinned, “I personally don’t see anything bad in this beast to be offended by this word...

The secretary stopped taking notes and secretly cast a surprised glance, not at the arrested person, but at the procurator.

“...however, after listening to me, he began to soften,” Yeshua continued, “finally threw money on the road and said that he would travel with me...”

Pilate grinned with one cheek, baring his yellow teeth, and said, turning his whole body to the secretary:

- Oh, the city of Yershalaim! There's just so much you can't hear in it. The tax collector, you hear, threw money on the road!

Not knowing how to respond to this, the secretary considered it necessary to repeat Pilate’s smile.

Still grinning, the procurator looked at the arrested man, then at the sun, steadily rising above the equestrian statues of the hippodrome, which lay far below to the right, and suddenly, in some kind of sickening torment, he thought that the easiest thing would be to expel this strange robber from the balcony, saying only two words: “Hang him.” Drive out the convoy too, leave the colonnade inside the palace, order the room to be darkened, lie down on the bed, demand cold water, call the dog Bang in a plaintive voice, and complain to her about hemicrania.

And the thought of poison suddenly flashed seductively in the procurator’s head.

He looked with dull eyes at the prisoner and was silent for some time, painfully remembering why in the morning merciless Yershalaim sun a prisoner with a face disfigured by beatings was standing in front of him and what unnecessary questions he would have to ask.

“Yes, Levi Matvey,” a high, tormenting voice came to him.

– But what did you say about the temple to the crowd at the market?

“I, the hegemon, said that the temple of truth would collapse. I said it this way to make it clearer.

- Why did you, tramp, confuse people at the market by talking about the truth about which you have no idea? What is truth?

And then the procurator thought: “Oh, my gods! I’m asking him about something unnecessary at the trial... My mind no longer serves me...” And again he imagined a bowl with a dark liquid. “I’ll poison you, I’ll poison you!” And again he heard the voice:

“The truth, first of all, is that you have a headache, and it hurts so much that you are cowardly thinking about death.” Not only are you unable to speak to me, but it is difficult for you to even look at me. And now I am unwittingly your executioner, which saddens me. You can’t even think about anything and dream only that your dog, apparently the only creature to which you are attached, will come. But your torment will now end, your headache will go away.

The secretary stared at the prisoner and did not finish the words.

Pilate raised his martyred eyes to the prisoner and saw that the sun was already standing quite high above the hippodrome, that the ray had made its way into the colonnade and was creeping towards Yeshua’s worn sandals, that he was avoiding the sun.

Here the procurator rose from his chair, clasped his head in his hands, and horror was expressed on his yellowish, shaved face. But he immediately suppressed it with his will and sank back into the chair.

Meanwhile, the prisoner continued his speech, but the secretary did not write anything down, but only, stretching his neck like a goose, tried not to utter a single word.

“Well, it’s all over,” said the arrested man, looking benevolently at Pilate, “and I’m extremely happy about it.” I would advise you, hegemon, to leave the palace for a while and take a walk somewhere in the surrounding area, or at least in the gardens on the Mount of Olives. The thunderstorm will begin,” the prisoner turned and squinted into the sun, “later, in the evening.” A walk would be of great benefit to you, and I would be happy to accompany you. Some new thoughts came to my mind that might, I think, seem interesting to you, and I would be happy to share them with you, especially since you give the impression of a very smart person...

Cool, from under his brows Pilate gazed at the prisoner, and in these eyes there was no longer any dullness, familiar sparks appeared in them.

“I didn’t ask you,” said Pilate, “perhaps you know Latin?”

“Yes, I know,” answered the prisoner. Color appeared on Pilate's yellowish cheeks, and he asked in Latin:

- How did you know that I wanted to call the dog?

“It’s very simple,” the prisoner answered in Latin, “you moved your hand through the air,” the prisoner repeated Pilate’s gesture, “as if you wanted to stroke it, and your lips...”

“Yes,” said Pilate.

There was silence, then Pilate asked a question in Greek:

- So, are you a doctor?

“No, no,” the prisoner answered briskly, “believe me, I’m not a doctor.”

- OK then. If you want to keep it a secret, keep it. This is not directly related to the matter. So you claim that you did not call for destroying... or setting fire, or in any other way destroying the temple?

– I, the hegemon, did not call anyone to such actions, I repeat. Do I look like a retard?

“Oh yes, you don’t look like a weak-minded person,” the procurator answered quietly and smiled some kind of terrible smile, “so swear that this didn’t happen.”

“What do you want me to swear to?” – he asked, very animated, untied.

“Well, at least with your life,” answered the procurator, “it’s time to swear by it, since it hangs by a thread, know this!”

“Don’t you think you’ve hung her up, hegemon?” - asked the prisoner, - if this is so, you are very mistaken.

Pilate shuddered and answered through clenched teeth:

- I can cut this hair.

“And you’re wrong about that,” the prisoner objected, smiling brightly and shielding himself from the sun with his hand, “will you agree that only the one who hung it can probably cut a hair?”

“Well, well,” said Pilate, smiling, “now I have no doubt that the idle onlookers in Yershalaim followed on your heels.” I don’t know who hung your tongue, but it hung well. By the way, tell me: is it true that you appeared in Yershalaim through the Susa Gate riding on a donkey, accompanied by a crowd of rabble who shouted greetings to you as if to some prophet? – here the procurator pointed to a scroll of parchment. The prisoner looked at the procurator in bewilderment.

“I don’t even have a donkey, hegemon,” he said. “I came to Yershalaim exactly through the Susa Gate, but on foot, accompanied by only Levi Matthew, and no one shouted anything to me, since no one knew me in Yershalaim then.

“Do you know such people,” Pilate continued, without taking his eyes off the prisoner, “a certain Dismas, another Gestas and a third Bar-Rabban?”

“I don’t know these good people,” answered the prisoner.

- Is it true?

- Is it true.

– Now tell me, why do you always use the words “good people”? Is that what you call everyone?

“All of them,” answered the prisoner, “there are no evil people in the world.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard about this,” said Pilate, grinning, “but maybe I don’t know life well!” You don’t have to write down any further,” he turned to the secretary, although he didn’t write anything down anyway, and continued to say to the prisoner: “Did you read about this in any of the Greek books?”

- No, I came to this with my mind.

- And you preach this?

- But, for example, the centurion Mark, they called him Rat Slayer, is he kind?

“Yes,” answered the prisoner, “he is, indeed, an unhappy man.” Since good people disfigured him, he has become cruel and callous. It would be interesting to know who crippled him?

“I can readily report this,” Pilate responded, “for I witnessed it.” Good people rushed at him like dogs at a bear. The Germans grabbed his neck, arms, and legs. The infantry maniple fell into the bag, and if the cavalry tour had not cut in from the flank, and I commanded it, you, philosopher, would not have had to talk to the Rat-Slayer. This was in the battle of Idistavizo, in the Valley of the Maidens.

“If I could talk to him,” the prisoner suddenly said dreamily, “I’m sure he would change dramatically.”

“I believe,” Pilate responded, “that you would bring little joy to the legate of the legion if you decided to talk to any of his officers or soldiers.” However, this will not happen, fortunately for everyone, and I will be the first to take care of this.

At this time, a swallow quickly flew into the colonnade, made a circle under the golden ceiling, descended, almost touched the face of the copper statue in the niche with its sharp wing and disappeared behind the capital of the column. Perhaps she got the idea to build a nest there.

During her flight, a formula developed in the now bright and light head of the procurator. It was like this: the hegemon looked into the case of the wandering philosopher Yeshua, nicknamed Ga-Notsri, and did not find any corpus delicti in it. In particular, I did not find the slightest connection between the actions of Yeshua and the unrest that occurred in Yershalaim recently. The wandering philosopher turned out to be mentally ill. As a result, the procurator does not approve the death sentence of Ha-Nozri, passed by the Small Sanhedrin. But due to the fact that Ha-Notsri’s crazy, utopian speeches could be the cause of unrest in Yershalaim, the procurator removes Yeshua from Yershalaim and subjects him to imprisonment in Kasaria Stratonova on the Mediterranean Sea, that is, exactly where the procurator’s residence is.

All that remained was to dictate this to the secretary.

The swallow's wings snorted just above the hegemon's head, the bird darted towards the bowl of the fountain and flew out into freedom. The procurator looked up at the prisoner and saw that a column of dust had caught fire near him.

– Everything about him? – Pilate asked the secretary.

“No, unfortunately,” the secretary unexpectedly answered and handed Pilate another piece of parchment.

-What else is there? – Pilate asked and frowned.

Having read what was submitted, his face changed even more. Whether the dark blood rushed to his neck and face or something else happened, but his skin lost its yellowness, turned brown, and his eyes seemed to have sunk.

Again, the culprit was probably the blood rushing to his temples and pounding through them, only something happened to the procurator’s vision. So, it seemed to him that the prisoner’s head floated away somewhere, and another one appeared in its place. On this bald head sat a thin-toothed golden crown; there was a round ulcer on the forehead, corroding the skin and smeared with ointment, a sunken, toothless mouth with a drooping, capricious lower lip. It seemed to Pilate that the pink columns of the balcony and the roofs of Yershalaim in the distance, below the garden, disappeared, and everything around was drowned in the dense greenery of the Caprean gardens. And something strange happened to the hearing - as if trumpets were playing quietly and menacingly in the distance, and a nasal voice was very clearly heard, arrogantly drawing the words: “The law on lese majeste...”.

Thoughts rushed through, short, incoherent and extraordinary: “Dead!”, then: “Dead!..” And some completely ridiculous one among them about someone who must certainly be - and with whom?! – immortality, and for some reason immortality caused unbearable melancholy.

Pilate tensed, expelled the vision, returned his gaze to the balcony, and again the eyes of the prisoner appeared before him.

“Listen, Ha-Nozri,” the procurator spoke, looking at Yeshua somehow strangely: the procurator’s face was menacing, but his eyes were alarming, “have you ever said anything about the great Caesar?” Answer! Did you say?.. Or… didn’t… say? “Pilate drew out the word “not” a little longer than is appropriate in court, and sent Yeshua in his gaze some thought that he seemed to want to instill in the prisoner.

“It’s easy and pleasant to tell the truth,” the prisoner remarked.

“I don’t need to know,” Pilate responded in a stifled, angry voice, “whether it’s pleasant or unpleasant for you to tell the truth.” But you'll have to say it. But when speaking, weigh every word if you do not want not only inevitable, but also painful death.

No one knows what happened to the procurator of Judea, but he allowed himself to raise his hand, as if shielding himself from a ray of sunlight, and behind this hand, as if behind a shield, he sent the prisoner some kind of suggestive glance.

“So,” he said, “answer, do you know a certain Judas from Kiriath and what exactly did you tell him, if you spoke, about Caesar?”

“It was like this,” the prisoner eagerly began to tell, “the day before yesterday in the evening I met a young man near the temple who called himself Judas from the city of Kiriath.” He invited me to his house in the Lower City and treated me...

- A kind person? – asked Pilate, and the devil’s fire sparkled in his eyes.

“A very kind and inquisitive person,” confirmed the prisoner, “he showed the greatest interest in my thoughts, received me very cordially...

“I lit the lamps...” Pilate said through his teeth in the tone of the prisoner, and his eyes flickered as he did so.

“Yes,” Yeshua continued, a little surprised at the procurator’s knowledge, “asked me to express my view of state power.” He was extremely interested in this question.

- And what did you say? - asked Pilate, - or will you answer that you forgot what you said? – but there was already hopelessness in Pilate’s tone.

“Among other things, I said,” said the prisoner, “that all power is violence against people and that the time will come when there will be no power of either the Caesars or any other power.” Man will move into the kingdom of truth and justice, where no power will be needed at all.

The secretary, trying not to utter a word, quickly scribbled words on the parchment.

“There has never been, is not, and never will be a greater and more beautiful power for people than the power of Emperor Tiberius!” – Pilate’s torn and sick voice grew.

For some reason the procurator looked at the secretary and the convoy with hatred.

The convoy raised their spears and, rhythmically knocking their shod swords, walked out from the balcony into the garden, and the secretary followed the convoy.

The silence on the balcony was broken for some time only by the song of the water in the fountain. Pilate saw how the water plate swelled above the tube, how its edges broke off, how it fell in streams.

The prisoner spoke first:

“I see that some kind of disaster has happened because I spoke with this young man from Kiriath.” I, the hegemon, have a presentiment that misfortune will happen to him, and I feel very sorry for him.

“I think,” the procurator answered with a strange smile, “that there is someone else in the world whom you should feel sorry for more than Judas of Kiriath, and who will have to do much worse than Judas!” So, Mark the Ratboy, a cold and convinced executioner, people who, as I see,” the procurator pointed to the disfigured face of Yeshua, “beat you for your sermons, the robbers Dismas and Gestas, who killed four soldiers with their associates, and, finally, the dirty traitor Judas - are they all good people?

“Yes,” answered the prisoner.

– And will the kingdom of truth come?

“It will come, hegemon,” Yeshua answered with conviction.

- It will never come! - Pilate suddenly shouted in such a terrible voice that Yeshua recoiled. So many years ago, in the Valley of the Virgins, Pilate shouted to his horsemen the words: “Cut them down! Slash them! The Giant Rat Slayer has been caught!” He even raised his voice, strained by commands, calling out the words so that they could be heard in the garden: “Criminal!” Criminal! Criminal!

– Yeshua Ha-Nozri, do you believe in any gods?

“There is only one God,” Yeshua answered, “I believe in him.”

- So pray to him! Pray harder! However,” here Pilate’s voice sank, “this will not help.” No wife? - For some reason, Pilate asked sadly, not understanding what was happening to him.

- No, I am alone.

“Hateful city,” the procurator suddenly muttered for some reason and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were cold, and rubbed his hands, as if washing them, “if you had been stabbed to death before your meeting with Judas of Kiriath, really, it would have been better.”

“Would you let me go, hegemon,” the prisoner suddenly asked, and his voice became alarmed, “I see that they want to kill me.”

Pilate’s face was distorted with a spasm, he turned to Yeshua the inflamed, red-veined whites of his eyes and said:

“Do you think, unfortunate one, that the Roman procurator will release the man who said what you said?” Oh gods, gods! Or do you think I'm ready to take your place? I don’t share your thoughts! And listen to me: if from now on you utter even one word, speak to anyone, beware of me! I repeat to you: beware.

- Hegemon...

- Be silent! - Pilate cried and with a wild gaze followed the swallow, which again fluttered onto the balcony, - towards me! - Pilate shouted.

And when the secretary and the convoy returned to their places, Pilate announced that he approved the death sentence pronounced in the meeting of the Small Sanhedrin to the criminal Yeshua Ha-Nozri, and the secretary wrote down what Pilate said. A minute later, Mark Ratboy stood in front of the procurator. The procurator ordered him to hand over the criminal to the head of the secret service and at the same time convey to him the procurator’s order that Yeshua Ha-Nozri be separated from other convicts, and also that the secret service team be prohibited from doing anything under pain of grave punishment talk to Yeshua or answer any of his questions.

At a sign from Mark, a convoy closed around Yeshua and led him out of the balcony.

Then a slender, light-bearded handsome man with lion muzzles sparkling on his chest, with eagle feathers on the crest of his helmet, with gold plaques on the sword belt, in shoes laced to the knees with a triple sole, and in a scarlet cloak thrown over his left shoulder, appeared before the procurator. This was the legate commander of the legion. His procurator asked where the Sebastian cohort was now. The legate reported that the Sebastians were holding a cordon in the square in front of the hippodrome, where the verdict on the criminals would be announced to the people.

Then the procurator ordered the legate to select two centuries from the Roman cohort. One of them, under the command of Ratboy, will have to escort criminals, carts with execution equipment and executioners when departing for Bald Mountain, and upon arrival at it, enter the upper cordon. The other should be immediately sent to Bald Mountain and begin the cordon immediately. For the same purpose, that is, to protect the Mountain, the procurator asked the legate to send an auxiliary cavalry regiment - the Syrian alu.

When the legate left the balcony, the procurator ordered the secretary to invite the president of the Sanhedrin, two of his members and the head of the temple guard of Yershalaim to the palace, but added that he asked to arrange it so that before the meeting with all these people he could speak with the president earlier and in private.

The orders of the procurator were carried out quickly and accurately, and the sun, which was burning Yershalaim with some extraordinary fury these days, had not yet had time to approach its highest point when on the upper terrace of the garden, near two marble white lions guarding the stairs, the procurator and the acting The duties of the President of the Sanhedrin are the Jewish High Priest Joseph Caiaphas.

It was quiet in the garden. But, emerging from under the colonnade onto the sun-filled upper square of the garden with palm trees on monstrous elephant legs, the square from which the whole of Yershalaim, which he hated, unfolded before the procurator with hanging bridges, fortresses and - most importantly - a block of marble with gold that defies any description dragon scales instead of a roof - the Yershalaim Temple - the procurator's keen hearing caught far and below, where a stone wall separated the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square, a low grumbling, above which weak, thin moans or screams soared from time to time.

The procurator realized that a countless crowd of Yershalaim residents, agitated by the latest riots, had already gathered in the square, that this crowd was impatiently awaiting the verdict, and that restless water sellers were shouting in it.

The procurator began by inviting the high priest to the balcony in order to hide from the merciless heat, but Caiaphas politely apologized and explained that he could not do this. Pilate pulled his hood over his slightly balding head and began a conversation. This conversation was conducted in Greek.

Pilate said that he had examined the case of Yeshua Ha-Nozri and confirmed the death sentence.

Thus, three robbers are sentenced to death, which is to be carried out today: Dismas, Gestas, Bar-Rabban and, in addition, this Yeshua Ha-Nozri. The first two, who decided to incite the people to revolt against Caesar, were taken in battle by the Roman authorities, are listed as the procurator, and, therefore, will not be discussed here. The latter, Var-Rabban and Ha-Notsri, were captured by the local authorities and condemned by the Sanhedrin. According to the law, according to custom, one of these two criminals will have to be released in honor of the great Easter holiday coming today.

So, the procurator wants to know which of the two criminals the Sanhedrin intends to release: Bar-Rabban or Ga-Nozri? Caiaphas bowed his head as a sign that the question was clear to him and answered:

– The Sanhedrin asks to release Bar-Rabban.

The procurator knew well that this was exactly how the high priest would answer him, but his task was to show that such an answer caused him amazement.

Pilate did this with great skill. The eyebrows on his arrogant face rose, the procurator looked straight into the eyes of the high priest with amazement.

“I admit, this answer surprised me,” the procurator spoke softly, “I’m afraid there is a misunderstanding here.”

Pilate explained. The Roman government in no way encroaches on the rights of the spiritual local authorities, the high priest knows this well, but in this case there is a clear mistake. And the Roman authorities are, of course, interested in correcting this mistake.

In fact: the crimes of Bar-Rabban and Ha-Nozri are completely incomparable in severity. If the second, clearly a crazy person, is guilty of uttering absurd speeches that confused the people in Yershalaim and some other places, then the first is burdened much more significantly. Not only did he allow himself direct calls for rebellion, but he also killed the guard while trying to take him. Varravan is much more dangerous than Ga-Nozri.

In view of all of the above, the procurator asks the high priest to reconsider the decision and leave at liberty the one of the two convicts who is less harmful, and this, without a doubt, is Ha-Nozri. So?

Caiaphas looked Pilate straight in the eye and said in a quiet but firm voice that the Sanhedrin had carefully examined the case and was reporting for the second time that it intended to release Bar-Rabban.

- How? Even after my petition? The petitions of the one in whose person the Roman power speaks? High Priest, repeat a third time.

“And for the third time we announce that we are freeing Barrabvan,” Kaifa said quietly.

It was all over, and there was nothing more to talk about. Ha-Notsri was leaving forever, and there was no one to cure the terrible, evil pains of the procurator, there was no remedy for them except death. But this was not the thought that struck Pilate now. The same incomprehensible melancholy that had already come on the balcony permeated his entire being. He immediately tried to explain it, and the explanation was strange: it seemed vague to the procurator that he had not finished speaking to the convict about something, or perhaps he had not heard something out.

Pilate drove away this thought, and it flew away in an instant, just as it had arrived. She flew away, and the melancholy remained unexplained, because it could not be explained by some other short thought that flashed like lightning and immediately went out: “Immortality... immortality has come...” Whose immortality has come? The procurator did not understand this, but the thought of this mysterious immortality made him feel cold in the sun.

“Okay,” said Pilate, “so be it.”

Then he looked around, looked around the world visible to him and was surprised at the change that had taken place. The bush, burdened with roses, disappeared, the cypress trees bordering the upper terrace, and the pomegranate tree, and the white statue in the greenery, and the greenery itself, disappeared. Instead, just some kind of crimson thicket floated, algae swayed in it and moved somewhere, and Pilate himself moved with them. Now he was carried away, suffocating and burning, by the most terrible anger, the anger of powerlessness.

“I’m cramped,” said Pilate, “I’m cramped!”

With a cold, wet hand, he tore the buckle from the collar of his cloak, and it fell onto the sand.

“It’s stuffy today, there’s a thunderstorm somewhere,” Kaifa responded, not taking his eyes off the procurator’s reddened face and foreseeing all the torment that was still to come. “Oh, what a terrible month of Nisan this year!”

The high priest's dark eyes flashed, and, no worse than the procurator had earlier, he expressed surprise on his face.

– What do I hear, procurator? - Caiaphas answered proudly and calmly, “are you threatening me after the verdict was passed, approved by you yourself?” Could it be? We are accustomed to the fact that the Roman procurator chooses his words before saying anything. Wouldn't anyone hear us, hegemon?

Pilate looked at the high priest with dead eyes and, baring his teeth, feigned a smile.

- What are you talking about, high priest! Who can hear us here now? Do I look like the young wandering holy fool who is being executed today? Am I a boy, Caiaphas? I know what I'm saying and where I'm saying it. The garden is cordoned off, the palace is cordoned off, so that a mouse cannot get through any crevice! Yes, not only a mouse, not even this one, what’s his name… from the city of Kiriath, will not penetrate. By the way, do you know someone like that, high priest? Yes... if someone like that got in here, he would bitterly feel sorry for himself, of course you will believe me on that? So know that from now on, high priest, you will have no peace! Neither you nor your people,” and Pilate pointed into the distance to the right, to where the temple was burning in the heights, “I’m telling you this—Pilate of Pontus, horseman of the Golden Spear!”

- I know I know! - Black-bearded Caiaphas answered fearlessly, and his eyes sparkled. He raised his hand to heaven and continued: “The Jewish people know that you hate them with fierce hatred and you will cause them a lot of torment, but you will not destroy them at all!” God will protect him! He will hear us, the almighty Caesar will hear us, he will protect us from the destroyer Pilate!

- Oh no! - Pilate exclaimed, and with every word it became easier and easier for him: there was no need to pretend anymore, there was no need to choose words. “You have complained too much to Caesar about me, and now my time has come, Caiaphas!” Now the news will fly from me, and not to the governor in Antioch and not to Rome, but directly to Caprea, the emperor himself, the news about how you are hiding notorious rebels in Yershalaim from death. And then I will not water Yershalaim with water from Solomon’s Pond, as I wanted for your benefit! No, not water! Remember how, because of you, I had to remove shields with the emperor’s monograms from the walls, move troops, I had, you see, to come myself and see what’s going on here! Remember my word, high priest. You will see more than one cohort in Yershalaim, no! The entire Fulminata legion will come under the city walls, the Arab cavalry will approach, then you will hear bitter weeping and lamentations! You will remember then the saved Bar-Rabban and you will regret that you sent the philosopher to his death with his peaceful preaching!

The high priest's face was covered with spots, his eyes were burning. He, like a procurator, smiled, grinning, and answered:

– Do you, procurator, believe what you are saying now? No, you don't! The seducer of the people brought us no peace, no peace, to Yershalaim, and you, horseman, understand this very well. You wanted to release him so that he would confuse the people, outrage the faith and bring the people under the Roman swords! But I, the High Priest of the Jews, while I am alive, will not allow my faith to be mocked and will protect the people! Do you hear, Pilate? - And then Kaifa raised his hand menacingly: - Listen, procurator! Caiaphas fell silent, and the procurator again heard, as it were, the sound of the sea rolling up to the very walls of the garden of Herod the Great. This noise rose from below to the feet and into the face of the procurator. And behind him, there, behind the wings of the palace, alarming trumpet signals, the heavy crunching of hundreds of legs, iron clanking were heard - then the procurator realized that the Roman infantry was already leaving, according to his order, rushing to the death parade, terrible for rebels and robbers.

– Do you hear, procurator? “- the high priest repeated quietly, “are you really going to tell me that all this,” here the high priest raised both hands, and the dark hood fell from Kaifa’s head, “was caused by the pathetic robber Bar-Rabban?”

The procurator wiped his wet, cold forehead with the back of his hand, looked at the ground, then, squinting at the sky, saw that the hot ball was almost above his head, and the shadow of Caiaphas had completely shrunk near the lion’s tail, and said quietly and indifferently:

- It's getting close to noon. We got carried away by the conversation, but meanwhile we must continue.

Having apologized to the high priest in elegant terms, he asked him to sit down on a bench in the shade of a magnolia tree and wait while he called the remaining persons needed for the last brief meeting and gave another order related to the execution.

Caiaphas bowed politely, putting his hand to his heart, and remained in the garden, while Pilate returned to the balcony. There, he ordered the secretary who was waiting for him to invite into the garden the legate of the legion, the tribune of the cohort, as well as two members of the Sanhedrin and the head of the temple guard, who were waiting to be called on the next lower terrace of the garden in a round gazebo with a fountain. To this Pilate added that he would immediately go out himself, and withdrew into the palace.

While the secretary was convening the meeting, the procurator, in a room shaded from the sun by dark curtains, had a meeting with some man, whose face was half covered by a hood, although the rays of the sun in the room could not disturb him. This meeting was extremely short. The procurator quietly said a few words to the man, after which he left, and Pilate walked through the colonnade into the garden.

There, in the presence of everyone he wanted to see, the procurator solemnly and dryly confirmed that he approved the death sentence of Yeshua Ha-Nozri, and officially inquired from the members of the Sanhedrin about which of the criminals he wanted to leave alive. Having received the answer that it was Bar-Rabban, the procurator said:

“Very good,” and ordered the secretary to immediately enter this into the protocol, squeezed the buckle picked up from the sand by the secretary in his hand and solemnly said: “It’s time!”

Here all those present set off down a wide marble staircase between the walls of roses, exuding an intoxicating aroma, descending lower and lower to the palace wall, to the gate leading out to a large, smoothly paved square, at the end of which the columns and statues of the Yershalaim lists could be seen.

As soon as the group, having left the garden to the square, climbed onto the vast stone platform that reigned over the square, Pilate, looking around through narrowed eyelids, figured out the situation. The space that he had just passed, that is, the space from the palace wall to the platform, was empty, but in front of him Pilate no longer saw the square - it was eaten up by the crowd. It would have flooded both the platform itself and that cleared space, if the triple row of Sebastian soldiers on Pilate’s left hand and soldiers of the Iturean auxiliary cohort on the right had not held it.

So, Pilate climbed onto the platform, mechanically clutching the unnecessary buckle in his fist and squinting. The procurator squinted not because the sun was burning his eyes, no! For some reason he did not want to see a group of convicts who, as he knew very well, were now being led onto the platform after him.

As soon as a white cloak with crimson lining appeared high on a stone cliff above the edge of the human sea, a sound wave hit the blind Pilate’s ears: “Gaaaaa...” It began quietly, originating somewhere in the distance near the hippodrome, then became thunderous and After holding on for a few seconds, it began to subside. “They saw me,” thought the procurator. The wave did not reach its lowest point and suddenly began to grow again and, swaying, rose higher than the first, and on the second wave, like foam boiling on a sea wall, a whistle and individual female moans, audible through the thunder, boiled up. “It was them who were brought onto the platform...” Pilate thought, “and the groans were because they crushed several women when the crowd moved forward.”

He waited for some time, knowing that no force could silence the crowd until it exhaled everything that had accumulated inside it and fell silent itself.

And when this moment came, the procurator threw his right hand up, and the last noise was blown away from the crowd.

Then Pilate drew as much hot air as he could into his chest and shouted, and his broken voice carried over thousands of heads:

- In the name of Caesar the Emperor!

Then an iron, chopped scream hit his ears several times - in the cohorts, throwing up their spears and badges, the soldiers shouted terribly:

- Long live Caesar!

Pilate raised his head and buried it directly in the sun. A green fire flashed under his eyelids, it set his brain on fire, and hoarse Aramaic words flew over the crowd:

– Four criminals arrested in Yershalaim for murder, incitement to rebellion and insulting the laws and faith, were sentenced to a shameful execution - hanging from poles! And this execution will now take place on Bald Mountain! The names of the criminals are Dismas, Gestas, Varravvan and Ga-Notsri. Here they are in front of you!

Pilate pointed to the right with his hand, not seeing any criminals, but knowing that they were there, in the place where they needed to be.

The crowd responded with a long roar of surprise or relief. When it went out, Pilate continued:

But only three of them will be executed, for, according to law and custom, in honor of the Easter holiday, one of the condemned, at the choice of the Small Sanhedrin and according to the approval of the Roman authorities, the magnanimous Caesar Emperor returns his despicable life!

Pilate shouted out words and at the same time listened as the roar was replaced by great silence. Now neither a sigh nor a rustle reached his ears, and there even came a moment when it seemed to Pilate that everything around him had completely disappeared. The city he hated has died, and only he stands, burned by sheer rays, with his face to the sky. Pilate remained silent for a while longer, and then began shouting:

- The name of the one who will now be released in front of you...

He made another pause, holding the name, checking that he had said everything, because he knew that the dead city would rise again after pronouncing the name of the lucky one and no further words could be heard.

"All? - Pilate silently whispered to himself, - that’s it. Name!"

And, rolling the letter “r” over the silent city, he shouted:

- Var-Rabban!

Then it seemed to him that the sun, ringing, burst above him and filled his ears with fire. In this fire roars, squeals, groans, laughter and whistles raged.

Pilate turned and walked along the platform back to the steps, not looking at anything except the multi-colored checkers of the flooring under his feet, so as not to stumble. He knew that now behind him bronze coins and dates were flying like a hail onto the platform, that in the howling crowd people, crushing each other, were climbing on each other’s shoulders to see with their own eyes a miracle - how a man who had already been in the hands of death escaped from these hands! How the legionnaires remove the ropes from him, involuntarily causing him searing pain in his arms, dislocated during interrogation, how he, wincing and groaning, still smiles a meaningless, crazy smile.

He knew that at the same time the convoy was already leading three men with their hands tied to the side steps to take them out onto the road leading west, outside the city, to Bald Mountain. Only when he found himself behind the platform, in the rear, did Pilate open his eyes, knowing that he was now safe - he could no longer see the condemned.

The groaning of the crowd, which was beginning to subside, was now mingled with the piercing cries of the heralds, who repeated, some in Aramaic, others in Greek, everything that the procurator had shouted from the platform. In addition, the sound of a horse's tramp and a trumpet, which briefly and cheerfully shouted something, reached his ears. These sounds were answered by the drilling whistle of boys from the roofs of the houses of the street leading from the market to the hippodrome square, and the shouts of “Beware!”

The soldier, standing alone in the cleared space of the square with a badge in his hand, waved it anxiously, and then the procurator, the legate of the legion, the secretary and the convoy stopped.

The cavalry ala, picking up an ever wider trot, flew out into the square to cross it to the side, bypassing the crowd of people, and along the alley under the stone wall along which the grapes lay, galloping along the shortest road to Bald Mountain.

Flying at a trot, small as a boy, dark as a mulatto, the commander of the ala - a Syrian, equaled Pilate, shouted something subtly and grabbed a sword from its sheath. The angry black, wet horse shied away and reared up. Throwing his sword into its sheath, the commander hit the horse on the neck with his whip, straightened it out and galloped into the alley, breaking into a gallop. Behind him, horsemen flew three in a row in a cloud of dust, the tips of light bamboo lances jumped, faces that seemed especially dark under white turbans with cheerfully bared, sparkling teeth rushed past the procurator.

Raising dust to the sky, the ala burst into the alley, and the last to gallop past Pilate was a soldier with a pipe blazing in the sun behind his back.

Shielding himself from the dust with his hand and wrinkling his face with displeasure, Pilate moved on, rushing to the gates of the palace garden, followed by the legate, secretary and convoy.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning.

Excerpt from Chapter 13: A Hero Appears

“... She was carrying disgusting, disturbing yellow flowers in her hands. The devil knows what their names are, but for some reason they are the first to appear in Moscow. And these flowers stood out very clearly on her black spring coat. She carried yellow flowers! Not a good color. She turned from Tverskaya into an alley and then turned around. Well, do you know Tverskaya? Thousands of people were walking along Tverskaya, but I guarantee you that she saw me alone and looked not only anxiously, but even as if painfully. And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by the extraordinary, unprecedented loneliness in her eyes!

Obeying this yellow sign, I also turned into the alley and followed in her footsteps. We walked along the crooked, boring alley in silence, I on one side, and she on the other. And, imagine, there wasn’t a soul in the alley. I was tormented because it seemed to me that it was necessary to talk to her, and I was worried that I would not utter a single word, and she would leave, and I would never see her again...

And, imagine, she suddenly spoke:

Do you like my flowers?

She looked at me in surprise, and I suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, realized that I had loved this woman all my life! That's the thing, huh? Of course, you say, crazy?

And the guest continued:

Yes, she looked at me in surprise, and then, looking at me, she asked:

No, I love flowers, just not like that,” I said.

Which ones?

I love roses.

Then I regretted saying this, because she smiled guiltily and threw her flowers into the ditch. A little confused, I nevertheless picked them up and gave them to her, but she, grinning, pushed the flowers away, and I carried them in my hands.

They walked like this in silence for some time, until she took the flowers out of my hands, threw them on the pavement, then put her hand in a black glove with a bell into mine, and we walked side by side.

guess. “He suddenly wiped away an unexpected tear with his right sleeve and continued: “Love jumped out in front of us, like a killer jumps out of the ground in an alley, and struck us both at once!”

That's how lightning strikes, that's how a Finnish knife strikes!

She, however, later claimed that this was not so, that we, of course, loved each other a long time ago, without knowing each other, never seeing each other, and that she lived with another person, and I was there then... with this what's her name...

With whom? - asked the Homeless Man.

With this... well... this, well... - the guest answered and snapped his fingers.

“The Master and Margarita” is known to absolutely everyone who has ever picked up the book, and those who have not read it have probably heard about the film adaptation of this work. Mikhail Bulgakov worked on this novel for many years, and it is not for nothing that many Bulgakov scholars consider it to be the author’s most brilliant work. Readers also respond ambiguously to this book; you either fall in love with the novel from the first lines, or vice versa, there is simply no third option - the work does not leave anyone indifferent.

The novel was written very harshly, and therefore they did not even want to allow such a book to be published in Soviet times. The work was seen by the world only many years later, but, alas, not for long - a series of prohibitions would begin again. As a result, the novel will begin its life anew only during Perestroika.

It’s possible not to fall in love with a work, but it’s absolutely impossible to remain without any emotions towards the quotes, even if you haven’t read the novel!

I powdered my mustache, that's all! It would be a different story if I shaved! A shaved cat is truly a disgrace, I agree to admit it a thousand times.
... And the cat became so swollen from resentment that it seemed like another second and it would burst.

A cat is not supposed to have pants, sir. Won't you order me to put on boots too? Puss in Boots only happens in fairy tales, sir. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a tie? I don't intend to find myself in a comical position and risk being pushed into the neck!

– And I really look like a hallucination. Pay attention to my profile in the moonlight,” the cat climbed into the moon pillar and wanted to say something else, but he was asked to be silent, and he answered: “Okay, okay, I’m ready to be silent.” I will be a silent hallucination,” he fell silent.

I don’t play pranks, I don’t hurt anyone, I fix the primus stove, and I also consider it my duty to warn that the cat is an ancient and inviolable animal.

Margarita Quotes

A man's fate is determined by his women, there is always a choice: or do you choose a woman? a guiding star, or a woman-trap.

I'm dizzy from all these unknowns...

There is nothing more painful, but nothing more blissful than returning to life after numbness.

I was overcome with sadness before the long journey. Isn’t it true, sir, it is quite natural, even when a person knows that happiness awaits him at the end of this road?

No matter what pessimists say, the earth is still absolutely beautiful, and under the moon it is simply unique.

... even being completely free and invisible, you still need to be at least a little prudent in pleasure.

Quotes from Woland

How can a person manage if he is not only deprived of the opportunity to draw up any plan for at least a ridiculously short period of time, well, say, a thousand years, but cannot even vouch for his own tomorrow?

The most interesting thing about this lie is that it is a lie from the first to the last word.

Annushka has already bought sunflower oil, and not only bought it, but even bottled it. So the meeting will not take place.

“We speak different languages, as always,” Woland responded, “but the things we talk about don’t change because of this.

The second freshness is nonsense! There is only one freshness - the first, and it is also the last. And if the sturgeon is second freshness, then this means that it is rotten!

Quotes from Koroviev

It’s whistling, I don’t argue,” Koroviev remarked condescendingly, “it’s really whistling, but, speaking impartially, it’s whistling is very average!”

If it weren't for poker, your life in Moscow would be completely unbearable.

No document, no person.

...a writer is not determined by his ID, but by what he writes! How do you know what plans are swarming in my head?

...I will take the liberty of advising you, Margarita Nikolaevna, to never be afraid of anything. This is unreasonable.

Quotes from a novel about love

Love jumped out in front of us, like a killer jumps out of the ground in an alley, and struck us both at once!

Understand that the tongue can hide the truth, but the eyes can never!

He who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.

Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in the world? May the liar's vile tongue be cut out!

Everything is intertwined in Bulgakov’s work: tragedy, philosophy, satire, realism and fantasy, an extraordinary multifaceted novel captivates the reader into the mystical atmosphere of new worlds, keeping him in suspense until the last chapters, and remaining perceived by everyone in their own way. More and more generations are struggling with the mysteries of the plot, and the work continues to occupy an honorable first place on bookshelves.

Never talk to strangers.

Oh, forgive me that in the heat of our learned conversation I forgot to introduce myself. Professor of black magic Woland. Invited to Moscow for consultation. Here, in the state library, authentic manuscripts of the warlock Herbert of Avrilak, the tenth century, were discovered. It requires me to take them apart. I am the only specialist in the world. Shh! Keep in mind: Jesus existed.

For some reason the stairs were deserted all the time. It was heard well, and finally a door knocked on the fifth floor. Poplavsky froze. Yes, his baby steps. "It's going down." The door to the floor below opened. The steps died down. Female voice. The voice of a sad man... yes, it’s his voice... Said something like “Leave it, for Christ’s sake...”. Poplavsky's ear stuck out in the broken glass. This ear caught a woman's laughter. Quick and brisk steps down; and then the woman’s back flashed. This woman, holding a green oilskin bag in her hands, walked out of the entrance into the yard. And that little man’s steps resumed. “It’s strange, he’s coming back to the apartment! Isn’t he from this gang himself? Yes, he’s coming back. They opened the door upstairs again. Well, let’s wait a little longer.”

First of all: the person described did not limp on any of his legs, and he was neither short nor huge, but simply tall. As for his teeth, he had platinum crowns on the left side and gold ones on the right. He was wearing an expensive gray suit and foreign-made shoes that matched the color of the suit. He cocked his gray beret jauntily over his ear and carried a cane with a black knob in the shape of a poodle's head under his arm. He looks to be over forty years old. The mouth is kind of crooked. Shaven clean. Brunette. The right eye is black, the left one is green for some reason. The eyebrows are black, but one is higher than the other. In a word - a foreigner. Styopa, wide-eyed, saw that a tray was served on a small table, on which there was sliced ​​white bread, pressed caviar in a vase, pickled white mushrooms on a plate, something in a saucepan and, finally, vodka in a voluminous jewelry decanter. Styopa was especially struck by the fact that the decanter was fogging up from the cold. However, this was understandable - he was placed in a gargle filled with ice. It was covered, in a word, cleanly and skillfully.

This would be an incomparable smell of freshly printed money. People are like people. They love money, but this has always been the case... Humanity loves money, no matter what it is made of, whether leather, paper, bronze or gold. Well, frivolous... well, well... ordinary people... in general, they resemble the old ones... the housing problem only spoiled them...

The session is over! Maestro! Shorten the march!

“I’m not being naughty, I’m not bothering anyone, I’m fixing the primus,” the cat said, frowning unfriendly, “and I also consider it my duty to warn that the cat is an ancient and inviolable animal.” And I really look like a hallucination. Pay attention to my profile in the moonlight,” the cat climbed into the moon pillar and wanted to say something else, but he was asked to be silent, and he answered: “Okay, okay, I’m ready to be silent.” I will be a silent hallucination,” he fell silent.

Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black cassock. His long, wide sword was stuck vertically between two split slabs of the terrace, so that it turned out to be a sundial. The sword's shadow slowly and steadily lengthened, creeping towards the black shoes on Satan's feet. Putting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched over on a stool and tucking one leg under him, Woland gazed at the immense collection of palaces, giant houses and small shacks doomed to be demolished.

It was quiet in the garden. But, emerging from under the colonnade onto the sun-filled upper square of the garden with palm trees on monstrous elephant legs, the square from which the whole of Yershalaim, which he hated, unfolded before the procurator with hanging bridges, fortresses and - most importantly - a block of marble with gold that defies any description dragon scales instead of a roof - the temple of Yershalaim - the procurator's keen hearing caught far and below, where a stone wall separated the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square, a low grumbling, above which weak, thin moans or screams soared from time to time. The procurator realized that there, in the square, a countless crowd of residents of Yershalaim, agitated by the latest riots, had already gathered, that this crowd was impatiently awaiting the verdict, and that restless water sellers were shouting in it. The procurator began by inviting the high priest to the balcony in order to hide from the merciless heat, but Caiaphas politely apologized and explained that he could not do this on the eve of the holiday. Pilate pulled his hood over his slightly balding head and began a conversation.

It was all over, and there was nothing more to talk about, Ga-Notsri was leaving forever, and there was no one to cure the terrible, evil pains of the procurator, there was no remedy for them except death. But this was not the thought that struck Pilate now. The same incomprehensible melancholy that had already come on the balcony permeated his entire being. He immediately tried to explain it, and the explanation was strange: it seemed vague to the procurator that he had not finished speaking to the convict about something, or perhaps he had not heard something out.

Closing his eyes, Levi waited for the fire to fall on him from the sky and hit him. This did not happen, and, without opening his eyelids, Levi continued to shout out caustic and offensive speeches to the sky. He screamed about his complete disappointment and that there were other gods and religions...

...the darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the terrible Antony Tower disappeared, an abyss fell from the sky and flooded the winged gods over the hippodrome, the Hasmonean palace with loopholes, bazaars, caravanserais, alleys, ponds... Yershalaim disappeared - the great city, as if it did not exist on light...

She carried disgusting, disturbing yellow flowers in her hands. - The devil knows what their names are, but for some reason they are the first to appear in Moscow. And these flowers stood out very clearly on her black spring coat.

She carried yellow flowers! Not a good color. She turned from Tverskaya into an alley and then turned around. Well, do you know Tverskaya? Thousands of people were walking along Tverskaya, but I guarantee you that she saw me alone and looked not only anxiously, but even as if painfully. And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by the extraordinary, unprecedented loneliness in her eyes! Obeying this yellow sign, I also turned into the alley and followed in her footsteps. We walked along the crooked, boring alley in silence, I on one side, and she on the other. And, imagine, there wasn’t a soul in the alley. I was tormented because it seemed to me that it was necessary to talk to her, and I was worried that I would not utter a single word, and she would leave, and I would never see her again...

And, imagine, she suddenly spoke: “Do you like my flowers?” I clearly remember how her voice sounded, quite low, but with disruptions, and, stupid as it may seem, it seemed that the echo struck in the alley and was reflected from the yellow dirty wall. I quickly moved to her side and, approaching her, answered: “No.” She looked at me in surprise, and I suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, realized that I had loved this woman all my life!

Listen to the soundlessness,” Margarita said to the master, and the sand rustled under her bare feet, “listen and enjoy what you were not given in life - silence.” 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. This is your home, your forever home. 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, putting 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.

The light came close, and Margarita saw the illuminated face of a man, long and black, holding this same lamp in his hand. Those who had the misfortune of getting caught on his road these days, even with the faint light of the tongue in the lamp, would, of course, immediately recognize him. It was Koroviev, aka Fagot.

Invisible and free! Invisible and free!

Never ask for anything, never for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They will offer and give everything themselves!

It is unlikely that you would recognize Koroviev-Fagot, the self-proclaimed translator under the mysterious and not needing any translations consultant, the one who was now flying directly next to Woland on the right hand of the master’s girlfriend. In the place of the one who, in tattered circus clothes, left the Sparrow Hills under the name of Koroviev-Fagot, now galloped, quietly ringing the golden chain of the reins, a dark purple knight with the gloomiest and never smiling face. He rested his chin on his chest, he did not look at the moon, he was not interested in the earth beneath him, he was thinking about something of his own, flying next to Woland.

- Why has he changed so much? - Margarita asked quietly as the wind whistled from Woland. “This knight once made a bad joke,” Woland answered, turning his face to Margarita with a quietly burning eye, “his pun, which he made when talking about light and darkness, was not entirely good.” And after that the knight had to joke a little more and longer than he expected. But today is the night when scores are settled. The knight paid his account and closed it!

The night also tore off the fluffy tail from the Behemoth, tore off its fur and scattered its shreds across the swamps. The one who was a cat who amused the prince of darkness now turned out to be a thin youth, a demon page, the best jester that ever existed in the world. Now he too became silent and flew silently, exposing his young face to the light pouring from the moon.

Azazello flew at the side of everyone, shining with the steel of his armor. The moon also changed his face. The absurd, ugly fang disappeared without a trace, and the squint turned out to be false. Both of Azazello's eyes were the same, empty and black, and his face was white and cold. Now Azazello flew in his true form, like a demon of the waterless desert, a demon-killer. Margarita could not see herself, but she clearly saw how the master had changed. His hair was now white in the moonlight and gathered in a braid at the back, and it flew in the wind. When the wind blew the cloak away from the master’s feet, Margarita saw the stars of his spurs on his boots, now extinguishing and then lighting up. Like a demon youth, the master flew without taking his eyes off the moon, but smiled at her, as if he knew her well and loved him, and muttered something to himself.

And finally, Woland also flew in his real guise, Margarita could not say what the reins of his horse were made of, and thought that it was possible that these were lunar chains and the horse itself was just a block of darkness, and the mane of this horse was a cloud, and the rider's spurs are the white spots of stars.