The Master and Margarita / Мастер и Маргарита. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Pilate shouted out the words, and at the same time listened to the way the humming was replaced by a great silence. Now not a sigh, not a rustling reached his ears, and there even came a moment when it seemed to Pilate that absolutely everything around him had vanished. The city he hated had died, and just he alone stood, scorched by the vertical rays, his face digging into the sky. Pilate continued to hold the silence, and then began shouting out:

“The name of the man who will now be released to freedom before you is…”

He paused once again, delaying the name, checking that he had said everything, because he knew the dead city would rise again after the lucky man’s name had been uttered, and no further words would be able to be heard.

“Is that all?” Pilate whispered to himself soundlessly. “It is. The name!”

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

“Bar-rabban!”

At this point it seemed to him that the sun, with a ringing sound, burst above him and flooded his ears with fire. In that fire raged a roaring, screams, moans, chuckling and whistling.

Pilate turned and set off back along the platform towards the steps, looking at nothing but the multicoloured blocks of the flooring beneath his feet, so as not to stumble. He knew that now, behind his back, bronze coins and dates were falling like hail onto the platform, people in the howling crowd were climbing onto shoulders, crushing one another, to see a miracle with their own eyes – a man who had already been in the hands of death tearing free of those hands! To see the legionaries taking the ropes off him, involuntarily causing him burning pain in arms dislocated during interrogation, to see him frowning and gasping, but all the same smiling a senseless, mad smile.

He knew that at this very same time the escort was already leading the three with their hands bound towards the side steps to take them out onto the road leading to the west, out of the city towards Bald Mountain. Only when he found himself behind the platform, in its rear, did Pilate open his eyes, knowing that now he was out of danger – no longer could he see the condemned men.

Mingled with the moaning of the crowd, which was beginning to fall quiet, were the readily discernible, piercing cries of the public criers, repeating, some in Aramaic, others in Greek, everything the Procurator had shouted from the platform. The staccato clatter of approaching horses’ hoofs reached his ears too, and a trumpet trumpeting something briefly and merrily. In reply to these sounds, from the roofs of the houses on the street leading out from the bazaar into the square of the hippodrome came the piercing whistling of little boys and cries of “look out!”

The solitary soldier standing in the cleared space of the square with a standard in his hand waved it in alarm, and then the Procurator, the legate of the legion, the secretary and the escort stopped.

The cavalry ala, working up ever more of a canter[117 - to work up ever more of a canter – «забирать» больше рыси, наращивать шаг и скорость в скачке на лошади], flew out into the square to cut across one side of it, passing the throng of people by, and to gallop by the shortest route, down a lane beside a stone wall with a vine creeping over it, to Bald Mountain.

On drawing level with Pilate, the fast-trotting commander of the ala, a Syrian as small as a boy and as dark as a mulatto, shouted something shrilly and drew his sword out from its scabbard. The wild, black, lathered horse shied and reared up on its hind legs. Thrusting the sword into its scabbard, the commander struck the horse across the neck with a lash, straightened it up, and rode into the lane, moving into a gallop. After him in a cloud of dust flew the horsemen in rows of three; the ends of their light bamboo lances began to bounce, and past the Procurator sped faces that seemed especially swarthy under their white turbans, and with cheerfully bared, gleaming teeth.

Raising the dust to the sky, the ala burst into the lane, and last to ride past Pilate was a soldier with a trumpet that blazed in the sun behind his back.

Shielding himself from the dust with his hand, and with a discontented frown on his face, Pilate moved onwards, heading for the gates of the palace garden, and the legate, the secretary and the escort moved off after him.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning.

3. The Seventh Proof

Yes, it was about ten o’clock in the morning, illustrious Ivan Nikolayevich,” said the Professor.

The poet passed his hand across his face like a man who has just come to, and saw that it was evening at Patriarch’s.

The water in the pond had blackened, and a light skiff was already sliding across it, and the splashing of an oar and the giggles of some citizeness in the skiff could be heard. People had appeared on the benches in the avenues, but again, on each ofthe three sides of the square apart from the one where our interlocutors were.

It was as if the sky above Moscow had faded, and the full moon could be seen perfectly distinctly on high, not yet golden, but white. Breathing had become much easier, and the voices beneath the lime trees now sounded softer, suited to the evening.

“How on earth did I fail to notice he’d managed to spin an entire story?” thought Bezdomny in amazement. “I mean, it’s already evening now! Yet perhaps it wasn’t even him telling it, simply I fell asleep and dreamt it all?”

But it must be supposed that it was, after all, the Professor who had been telling it, otherwise it would have to be allowed that Berlioz had had the same dream too, because the latter, peering attentively into the foreigner’s face, said:

“Your story is extremely interesting, Professor, although it doesn’t coincide at all with the stories in the Gospels[118 - the stories in the Gospels – Евангельские рассказы].”

“Pardon me,” responded the Professor with a condescending smile, “but you of all people ought to know that absolutely nothing of what is written in the Gospels ever actually happened, and if we start referring to the Gospels as a historical source[119 - to refer to the Gospels as a historical source – ссылаться на Евангелие как на исторический источник]…” Again he smiled, and Berlioz was taken aback[120 - to be taken aback – быть захваченным врасплох], because he had been saying word for word the same thing to Bezdomny while walking along Bronnaya towards Patriarch’s Ponds.

“That is so,” replied Berlioz, “but I’m afraid no one can confirm that what you’ve told us actually happened either.”

“Oh no! One can confirm it!” responded the Professor with extreme confidence, beginning to speak in broken Russian, and in an unexpectedly mysterious way he beckoned the two friends a little closer towards him.

They leant in towards him from both sides, and he said, but now without any accent (which, the devil knows why, was forever coming and going):

“The fact is…” – here the Professor looked around fearfully and began speaking in a whisper – "I was personally present during it all. I was on Pontius Pilate’s balcony, and in the garden when he was talking with Caipha, and on the platform – only secretly, incognito, so to speak, so I beg you – not a word to anyone, and in absolute confidence!. Ssh!”

Silence fell, and Berlioz turned pale.

"How. how long have you been in Moscow?” he asked in a faltering voice[121 - in a faltering voice – дрогнувшим голосом].

"I’ve only just this moment arrived in Moscow,” replied the Professor, perplexed, and only at this point did the friends think to look properly into his eyes, and they satisfied themselves that the left, the green one, was completely mad, while the right one was empty, black and dead.

"And there’s everything explained for you!” thought Berlioz in confusion. "There’s an insane German come here, or else he’s just gone barmy at Patriarch’s. There’s a thing!”

Yes, everything was, indeed, explained: the very strange breakfast with the late philosopher, Kant, and the ridiculous talk about sunflower oil and Annushka, and the predictions about his head being chopped off, and all the rest – the Professor was insane.

Berlioz immediately grasped what was to be done. Reclining against the back of the bench, he started winking at[122 - to wink at – заговорщицки подмигивать] Bezdomny behind the Professor’s back – as if to say, don’t contradict him – but the bewildered poet failed to understand these signals.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Berlioz excitedly. “Actually, it’s all possible!. Perfectly possible, even – Pontius Pilate, the balcony and so forth. And are you here alone or with your wife?”

'Alone, alone, I’m always alone,” replied the Professor bitterly.

“But where are your things, Professor?” asked Berlioz, fishing. “At the Metropole? Where have you put up?”

“Me? Nowhere,” replied the crazy German, with his green eye wandering mournfully and wildly over Patriarch’s Ponds.

“How’s that? But. where are you going to be staying?”

“In your apartment,” the madman suddenly replied in an overfamiliar tone, and gave a wink.

“I. I’m delighted,” mumbled Berlioz, “but truly, you’ll find my place inconvenient. And there are wonderful rooms at the Metropole – it’s a first-class hotel…”

“And is there no Devil either?” the sick man cheerfully enquired all of a sudden of Ivan Nikolayevich.

“The Devil too.”

“Don’t contradict him!” Berlioz whispered with his lips alone as he slumped down[123 - to slump down – падать, обрушиваться] behind the Professor’s back, grimacing.

“There is no Devil!” Ivan Nikolayevich exclaimed something unnecessary, bewildered by all this nonsense. “What a pain! Just stop behaving like a madman!”

At this point the madman burst into such laughter that a sparrow flitted out from the lime tree above the heads of the seated men.

“Well, now that is positively interesting,” said the Professor, shaking with laughter. “What is it with you? Whatever you try, nothing exists!” He suddenly stopped chuckling and, as is quite understandable in a case of mental illness, after the laughter he went to the other extreme – became irritated and cried out sternly: “So, there really isn’t one, then?”

“Relax, relax, relax, Professor,” muttered Berlioz, fearful of agitating the sick man, “you sit here for a minute with Comrade Bezdomny, and I’ll just run down to the corner, make a telephone call, and then we’ll see you to wherever you like. After all, you don’t know the city…”

Berlioz’s plan has to be acknowledged as the correct one: he needed to run to the nearest public telephone and inform the Foreigners’ Bureau of the fact that there was a visiting consultant from abroad sitting at Patriarch’s Ponds in an obvious state of madness. So it was essential to take measures, or else the result would be some kind of unpleasant nonsense.