29. The Master and Margarita's Fate Is Determined

At sunset, high above the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beautiful buildings in Moscow, built about a hundred and fifty years before, there were two figures: Woland and Azazello. They were not visible from the street below, since they were hidden from any unwanted gaze by a balustrade with plaster vases and plaster flowers. But the city was visible to them almost to its very edges.

Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane. His long and broad sword was stuck vertically in between two cleft paving slabs of the terrace, resulting in a sundial. The shadow of the sword slowly and inexorably lengthened, crawling towards the black shoes on Satan’s feet. With his sharp chin resting on his fist, hunched over on the stool and with one leg bent beneath him, Woland looked fixedly at the boundless assemblage of palaces, gigantic buildings and little hovels doomed to demolition.

Azazello, having parted with his contemporary costume – that is, the jacket, bowler hat and patent-leather shoes – and dressed, just like Woland, in black, was standing motionless not far from his lord and, just like him, was not taking his eyes off the city.

Woland spoke:

“What an interesting city, isn’t it?”

Azazello stirred and answered deferentially:

“Messire, I like Rome better.”

“Yes, it’s a matter of taste,” Woland replied.

After some time his voice rang out again:

“And why is there that smoke there, on the boulevard?” “That’s Griboyedov burning,” replied Azazello.

“It must be assumed that that inseparable pair, Korovyev and Behemoth, have been there?”

“There is no doubt whatsoever of that, Messire.”

Again silence set in, and both of those on the terrace watched as in west-facing windows in the upper floors of the huge blocks the broken, blinding sun lit up. Woland’s eye burned in exactly the same way as one such window, although Woland had his back to the sunset.

But at this point something made Woland turn away from the city and direct his attention towards the round tower which was on the roof behind his back. From its wall emerged a ragged, gloomy, black-bearded man covered in clay, wearing a chiton and home-made sandals.

“Well I never!” exclaimed Woland, looking at the new arrival mockingly. “You least of all might have been expected here! Why have you come, uninvited yet anticipated guest?”

“I’ve come to see you, spirit of evil and lord of shadows,” replied the new arrival, gazing at Woland in unfriendly fashion from under his brows.

“If you’ve come to see me, then why haven’t you offered me your good wishes, former collector of taxes?” said Woland sternly.

“Because I don’t wish you to prosper,” the new arrival answered impertinently.

“But you’ll have to reconcile yourself to it,” Woland retorted, and his mouth twisted in a grin, “you’ve scarcely had time to appear on the roof before you’ve already come out with something absurd, and I’ll tell you what it is: it’s your intonations. You pronounced your words as if you don’t acknowledge shadows, or evil either. Would you be so kind as to give a little thought to the question of what that good of yours would do if evil did not exist, and how the earth would look if shadows were to disappear from it? After all, shadows come from objects and people. There’s the shadow from my sword. But shadows can come from trees and from other living things. Do you want to strip the whole earth bare, removing from it all the trees and everything that’s alive, because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You’re stupid.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, you old sophist,” replied Levi Matthew.

“And you can’t argue with me for the reason that I’ve already mentioned: you’re stupid,” Woland replied, and asked: “Well, be brief and don’t tire me, why have you appeared?”

“He sent me.”

“And what did he bid you say to me, slave?”

"I’m not a slave,” replied Levi Matthew, his animosity growing more and more, "I’m his disciple.”

"You and I are speaking different languages, as always,” responded Woland, "but the things we’re talking about don’t change because of it. And so?”

"He has read the Master’s work,” said Levi Matthew, "and requests that you take the Master with you and reward him with peace. Surely that s not hard for you to do, spirit of evil?”

"Nothing is hard for me to do,” replied Woland, "and you know that very well.” He paused, and added: "But why don’t you take him in yourselves, to the light?”

"He has not merited light, he has merited peace.” Levi pronounced in a sad voice.

"Say that it will be done,” Woland replied, and added, with his eye flaring up: "And leave me immediately.”

"He asks that you should take the one who loved and suffered for him also” – for the first time Levi addressed Woland imploringly.

"There’s no chance we would have thought of that without you. Go away.”

After that, Levi Matthew vanished, and Woland called Azazello to him and gave him the order:

"Fly to them and arrange everything.”

Azazello left the terrace and Woland remained alone.

But his solitude was not long-lasting. The tap of footsteps on the paving slabs of the terrace and animated voices were heard, and Korovyev and Behemoth appeared before Woland. But now the fat one had no Primus and was laden with other objects. Thus, under his arm there was a small landscape in a gold frame; thrown over his arm was a half-scorched chef’s smock, and in the other hand he held an entire salmon in its skin and with its tail. Korovyev and Behemoth reeked of burning; Behemoth’s face was covered in soot and his cap was half scorched.

“Salut, Messire!” cried the irrepressible pair, and Behemoth started waved the salmon.

“You look delightful,” said Woland.

“Imagine, Messire,” cried Behemoth in excitement and joy, “I was taken for a pillager!”

“To judge by the objects you’ve brought,” replied Woland, casting glances at the little landscape, “you are a pillager.”

“Would you believe it, Messire…” began Behemoth in a sincere voice.

“No, I wouldn’t,” replied Woland curtly.

“Messire, I swear I made heroic attempts to save everything that could be saved, and this is all I managed to preserve.”

“It would be better if you told me what set Griboyedov on fire,” said Woland. Both of them, Korovyev and Behemoth, spread their arms wide, raised their eyes to the sky, and Behemoth exclaimed:

“I can’t make it out! We were sitting peaceably, perfectly quietly, having a bite to eat…”

“And suddenly – bang, bang!” Korovyev chimed in. “Shots! Mad with terror, Behemoth and I rushed to escape onto the boulevard, our persecutors were behind us; we rushed towards Timiryazev!”

“But a sense of duty,” Behemoth joined in, “overcame our shameful terror and we returned.”

“Ah, you returned?” said Woland. “Well, of course, and then the building was burnt to a cinder.”

“To a cinder!” Korovyev confirmed mournfully. “That is, literally, Messire, to a cinder, as you were good enough to put it so accurately. Just smouldering timbers!”

“I headed,” Behemoth recounted, “for the conference hall – that’s the one with the columns, Messire – reckoning on pulling something valuable out. Ah, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, risked being left a widow twenty times! But fortunately, Messire, I’m not married, and I’ll tell you straight: I’m happy I’m not married. Ah, Messire, how can one possibly exchange bachelor freedom for a burdensome yoke!”

“Some sort of drivel has begun again,” remarked Woland.

“I hear and continue,” replied the cat. “Yes indeed, here’s a little landscape. It was impossible to carry anything more out of the hall: the flame struck me in the face. I ran to the pantry, saved the salmon. I ran to the kitchen, saved the smock. I consider, Messire, that I did all I could, and I don’t understand how to explain the sceptical expression on your face.”

“And what was Korovyev doing at the time you were pillaging?” asked Woland.

“I was helping the firemen, Messire,” replied Korovyev, indicating his ripped trousers.

“Ah, if that’s the case, then, of course, a new building will have to be built.”

“It will be built, Messire,” responded Korovyev, “I make bold to assure you of that.”

“Well then, it just remains to wish that it should be better than the previous one,” remarked Woland.

“It will be so, Messire,” said Korovyev.

“Believe you me,” added the cat, “I’m a regular prophet.”

“In any event, we’re here, Messire,” reported Korovyev, “and we await your instructions.”

Woland rose from his stool, went up to the balustrade, and for a long time, in silence, alone, with his back turned to his retinue, he gazed into the distance. Then he walked away from the edge, sank onto his stool again and said:

“There will be no instructions – you have carried out all that you could, and I do not need your services any more for the time being. You can rest. A storm will shortly be coming, the final storm; it will complete everything that needs to be completed, and we shall be on our way.”

“Very good, Messire,” the two clowns replied, and disappeared somewhere behind the round central tower, situated in the middle of the terrace.

The storm of which Woland spoke was already gathering on the horizon. A black cloud rose and cut off half of the sun. Then it covered it completely. It became fresher on the terrace. Some time later still it became dark.

This darkness that had come from the west covered the enormous city. The bridges, the palaces vanished. Everything disappeared, as though it had never been on the earth. One fiery thread ran across the whole sky. Then the city was shaken by a thunderclap. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland ceased to be visible in its gloom.