Компенсаторные средства английского языка при переводе русских глаголов многократного действия

Введение
Глава 1. Особенности грамматической семантики глагола
1.1. Грамматическая семантика
1.2. Семантические подклассы глаголов
Глава 2. Место глаголов многократного действия (мультипликативов) в системе семантических подклассов глаголов в английском и русском языках
2.1. Собственно мультипликативы
2.2. Редупликация в предложении
2.3. Глаголы дистрибутивы
Глава 3. Категория аспектуальности и ее связь с семантическими подклассами глаголов
Заключение
Список использованной литературы

' exclaimed Margarita. 'No, I beg you, Messire, there's no need for
that!'
`As you wish, as you wish,' Woland replied, and Azazello sat down in
his place.
'So, where were we, precious Queen Margot?' said Koroviev. 'Ah, yes,
the heart... He does hit the heart,' Koroviev pointed his long finger in
Azazello's direction, 'as you choose - any auricle of the heart, or any
ventricle.'
Margarita did not understand at first, and when she did, she exclaimed
in surprise:
'But they're covered up!'
'My dear,' clattered Koroviev, 'that's the point, that they're covered
up! That's the whole salt of it! Anyone can hit an uncovered object!'
Koroviev took a seven of spades from the desk drawer, offered it to
Margarita, and asked her to mark one of the pips with her fingernail.
Margarita marked the one in the upper right-hand corner. Hella hid the
card under a pillow, crying:
'Ready!'
Azazello, who was sitting with his back to the pillow, drew a black
automatic from the pocket of his tailcoat trousers, put the muzzle over his
shoulder, and, without turning towards the bed, fired, provoking a merry
fright in Margarita. The seven was taken from under the bullet-pierced
pillow. The pip marked by Margarita had a hole in it.
'I wouldn't want to meet you when you're carrying a gun,' Margarita
said, casting coquettish glances at Azazello. She had a passion for anyone
who did something top-notch.
'Precious Queen,' squeaked Koroviev, `I wouldn't advise anyone to meet
him, even if he's not carrying a gun! I give you my word of honour as an
ex-choirmaster and precentor that no one would congratulate the one doing
the meeting.'
The cat sat scowling throughout the shooting trial, and suddenly
announced:
'I undertake to beat the record with the seven.'
Azazello growled out something in reply to that. But the cat was
stubborn, and demanded not one but two guns. Azazello took a second gun from
the second back pocket of his trousers and, twisting his mouth disdainfully,
handed it to the braggart together with the first. Two pips were marked on
the seven. The cat made lengthy preparations, turning his back to the
pillow. Margarita sat with her fingers in her ears and looked at the owl
dozing on the mantelpiece. The cat fired both guns, after which Hella
shrieked at once, the owl fell dead from the mantelpiece, and the smashed
clock stopped. Hella, whose hand was all bloody, clutched at the cat's fur
with a howl, and he clutched her hair in retaliation, and the two got
tangled into a ball and rolled on the floor. One of the goblets fell from
the table and broke.
'Pull this rabid hellion off me!' wailed the cat, fighting off Hella,
who was sitting astride him. The combatants were separated, and Koroviev
blew on Hella's bullet-pierced finger and it mended.
'I can't shoot when someone's talking at my elbow!' shouted Behemoth,
trying to stick in place a huge clump of fur pulled from his back.
'I'll bet,' said Woland, smiling to Margarita, `that he did this stunt
on purpose. He's not a bad shot.'
Hella and the cat made peace and, as a sign of their reconciliation,
exchanged kisses. The card was taken from under the pillow and checked. Not
a single pip had been hit, except for the one shot through by Azazello.
"That can't be,' insisted the cat, holding the card up to the light of
the candelabra.
The merry supper went on. The candles guttered in the candelabra, the
dry, fragrant warmth of the fireplace spread waves over the room.
After eating, Margarita was enveloped in a feeling of bliss. She
watched the blue-grey smoke-rings from Azazello's cigar float into the
fireplace, while the cat caught them on the tip of a sword. She did not want
to go anywhere, though according to her reckoning it was already late. By
all tokens, it was getting on towards six in the morning. Taking advantage
of a pause, Margarita turned to Woland and said timidly:
'I suppose it's time for me ... it's late ...'
'What's your hurry?' asked Woland, politely but a bit drily. The rest
kept silent, pretending to be occupied with the smoke-rings.
'Yes, it's time,' Margarita repeated, quite embarrassed by it, and
looked around as if searching for some cape or cloak. She was suddenly
embarrassed by her nakedness. She got up from the table. Woland silently
took his worn-out and greasy dressing-gown from the bed, and Koroviev threw
it over Margarita's shoulders.
'I thank you, Messire,' Margarita said barely audibly, and looked
questioningly at Woland. In reply, he smiled at her courteously and
indifferently. Black anguish somehow surged up all at once in Margarita's
heart. She felt herself deceived. No rewards would be offered her for all
her services at the ball, apparently, just as no one was detaining her. And
yet it was perfectly clear to her that she had nowhere to go. The fleeting
thought of having to return to her house provoked an inward burst of despair
in her. Should she ask, as Azazello had temptingly advised in the
Alexandrovsky Garden? 'No, not for anything!' she said to herself.
'Goodbye, Messire,' she said aloud, and thought, 'I must just get out
of here, and then I'll go to the river and drown myself.'
'Sit down now,' Woland suddenly said imperiously.
Margarita changed countenance and sat down.
'Perhaps you want to say something before you leave?'
'No, nothing, Messire,' Margarita answered proudly, 'except that if you
still need me, I'm willing and ready to do anything you wish. I'm not tired
in the least, and I had a very good time at the ball. So that if it were
still going on, I would again offer my knee for thousands of gallowsbirds
and murderers to kiss.' Margarita looked at Woland as if through a veil, her
eyes filling with tears.
'True! You're perfectly right!' Woland cried resoundingly and terribly.
That's the way!'
'That's the way!' Woland's retinue repeated like an echo.
`We've been testing you,' said Woland. 'Never ask for anything! Never
for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They'll
make the offer themselves, and give everything themselves. Sit down, proud
woman,' Woland tore the heavy dressing-gown from Margarita and again she
found herself sitting next to him on the bed. 'And so, Margot,' Woland went
on, softening his voice, `what do you want for having been my hostess
tonight? What do you wish for having spent the ball naked? What price do you
put on your knee? What are your losses from my guests, whom you just called
gallowsbirds? Speak! And speak now without constraint, for it is I who
offer.'
Margarita's heart began to pound, she sighed heavily, started pondering
something.
'Well, come, be braver!' Woland encouraged her. 'Rouse your fantasy,
spur it on! Merely being present at the scene of the murder of that
inveterate blackguard of a baron is worth a reward, particularly if the
person is a woman. Well, then?'
Margarita's breath was taken away, and she was about to utter the
cherished words prepared in her soul, when she suddenly turned pale, opened
her mouth and stared: 'Frieda! ... Frieda, Frieda!' someone's importunate,
imploring voice cried in her ears, `my name is Frieda!' And Margarita,
stumbling over the words, began to speak:
'So, that means ... I can ask ... for one thing?'
'Demand, demand, my donna,' Woland replied, smiling knowingly, 'you may
demand one thing.'
Ah, how adroitly and distinctly Woland, repeating Margarita's words,
underscored that 'one thing'!
Margarita sighed again and said:
'I want them to stop giving Frieda that handkerchief with which she
smothered her baby.'
The cat raised his eyes to heaven and sighed noisily, but said nothing,
perhaps remembering how his ear had already suffered.
'In view of the fact,' said Woland, grinning, 'that the possibility of
your having been bribed by that fool Frieda is, of course, entirely excluded
- being incompatible with your royal dignity - I simply don't know what to
do. One thing remains, perhaps: to procure some rags and stuff them in all
the cracks of my bedroom.'
`What are you talking about, Messire?' Margarita was amazed, hearing
these indeed incomprehensible words.
`I agree with you completely, Messire,' the cat mixed into the
conversation, 'precisely with rags!' And the cat vexedly struck the table
with his paw.
'I am talking about mercy,' Woland explained his words, not taking his
fiery eye off Margarita. 'It sometimes creeps, quite unexpectedly and
perfidiously, through the narrowest cracks. And so I am talking about rags
...'
'And I'm talking about the same thing!' the cat exclaimed, and drew
back from Margarita just in case, raising his paws to protect his sharp
ears, covered with a pink cream.
'Get out,' said Woland.
'I haven't had coffee yet,' replied the cat, how can I leave? Can it
be, Messire, that on a festive night the guests are divided into two sorts?
One of the first, and the other, as that sad skinflint of a barman put it,
of second freshness?'
'Quiet,' ordered Woland, and, turning to Margarita, he asked: 'You are,
by all tokens, a person of exceptional kindness? A highly moral person?'
'No,' Margarita replied emphatically, 'I know that one can only speak
frankly with you, and so I will tell you frankly: I am a light-minded
person. I asked you for Frieda only because I was careless enough to give
her firm hope. She's waiting, Messire, she believes in my power. And if
she's left disappointed, I'll be in a terrible position. I'll have no peace
in my life. There's no help for it, it just happened.'
'Ah,' said Woland, 'that's understandable.'
'Will you do it?' Margarita asked quietly.
`By no means,' answered Woland. 'The thing is, dear Queen, that a
little confusion has taken place here. Each department must look after its
own affairs. I don't deny our possibilities are rather great, they're much
greater than some not very keen people may think...'
'Yes, a whole lot greater,' the cat, obviously proud of these
possibilities, put in, unable to restrain himself.
'Quiet, devil take you!' Woland said to him, and went on addressing
Margarita: 'But there is simply no sense in doing what ought to be done by
another - as I just put it - department. And so, I will not do it, but you
will do it yourself.'
'And will it be done at my word?'
Azazello gave Margarita an ironic look out of the comer of his blind
eye, shook his red head imperceptibly, and snorted.
`Just do it, what a pain!' Woland muttered and, turning the globe,
began peering into some detail on it, evidently also occupied with something
else during his conversation with Margarita.
'So, Frieda ...' prompted Koroviev.
'Frieda!' Margarita cried piercingly.
The door flew open and a dishevelled, naked woman, now showing no signs
of drunkenness, ran into the room with frenzied eyes and stretched her arms
out to Margarita, who said majestically:
'You are forgiven. The handkerchief will no longer be brought to you.'
Frieda's scream rang out, she fell face down on the floor and
prostrated in a cross before Margarita. Woland waved his hand and Frieda
vanished from sight.
'Thank you, and farewell,' Margarita said, getting up.
'Well, Behemoth,' began Woland, 'let's not take advantage of the action
of an impractical person on a festive night.' He turned to Margarita: 'And
so, that does not count, I did nothing. What do you want for yourself?'
Silence ensued, interrupted by Koroviev, who started whispering in
Margarita's ear:
'Diamond donna, this time I advise you to be more reasonable! Or else
fortune may slip away.'
'I want my beloved master to be returned to me right now, this second,'
said Margarita, and her face was contorted by a spasm.
Here a wind burst into the room, so that the flames of the candles in
the candelabra were flattened, the heavy curtain on the window moved aside,
the window opened wide and revealed far away on high a full, not morning but
midnight moon. A greenish kerchief of night-light fell from the window-sill
to the floor, and in it appeared Ivanushka's night visitor, who called
himself a master. He was in his hospital clothes - robe, slippers and the
black cap, with which he never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a
grimace, he glanced sidelong with a crazy amorousness at the lights of the
candles, and the torrent of moonlight seethed around him.
Margarita recognized him at once, gave a moan, clasped her hands, and
ran to him. She kissed him on the forehead, on the lips, pressed herself to
his stubbly cheek, and her long held-back tears now streamed down her face.
She uttered only one word, repeating it senselessly:
'You ... you ... you...'
The master held her away from him and said in a hollow voice:
'Don't weep, Margot, don't torment me, I'm gravely ill.' He grasped the
window-sill with his hand, as if he were about to jump on to it and flee,
and, peering at those sitting there, cried: `I'm afraid, Margot! My
hallucinations are beginning again...'
Sobs stifled Margarita, she whispered, choking on the words:
'No, no, no ... don't be afraid of anything ... I'm with you ... I'm
with you ...'
Koroviev deftly and inconspicuously pushed a chair towards the master,
and he sank into it, while Margarita threw herself on her knees, pressed
herself to the sick man's side, and so grew quiet. In her agitation she had
not noticed that her nakedness was somehow suddenly over, that she was now
wearing a black silk cloak. The sick man hung his head and began looking
down with gloomy, sick eyes.
`Yes,' Woland began after a silence, 'they did a good job on him.' He
ordered Koroviev: 'Knight, give this man something to drink.'
Margarita begged the master in a trembling voice:
'Drink, drink! You're afraid? No, no, believe me, they'll help you!'
The sick man took the glass and drank what was in it, but his hand
twitched and the lowered glass smashed at his feet.
'It's good luck, good luck!' Koroviev whispered to Margarita. 'Look,
he's already coming to himself.'
Indeed, the sick man's gaze was no longer so wild and troubled.
'But is it you, Margot?' asked the moonlit guest.
'Don't doubt, it's I,' replied Margarita.
'More!' ordered Woland.
After the master emptied the second glass, his eyes became alive and
intelligent.
'Well, there, that's something else again,' said Woland, narrowing his
eyes. 'Now let's talk. Who are you?'
'I'm nobody now,' the master replied, and a smile twisted his mouth.
'Where have you just come from?'
'From the house of sorrows. I am mentally ill,' replied the visitor.
These words Margarita could not bear, and she began to weep again. Then
she wiped her eyes and cried out:
Terrible words! Terrible words! He's a master, Messire, I'm letting you
know that! Cure him, he's worth it!'
`Do you know with whom you are presently speaking?' Woland asked the
visitor. 'On whom you have come calling?'
'I do,' replied the master, 'my neighbour in the madhouse was that boy,
Ivan Homeless. He told me about you.'
'Ah, yes, yes,' Woland responded, 'I had the pleasure of meeting that
young man at the Patriarch's Ponds. He almost drove me mad myself, proving
to me that I don't exist. But you do believe that it is really I?'
'I must believe,' said the visitor, 'though, of course, it would be
much more comforting to consider you the product of a hallucination. Forgive
me,' the master added, catching himself.
'Well, so, if it's more comforting, consider me that,' Woland replied
courteously. 'No, no!' Margarita said, frightened, shaking the master by the
shoulder. 'Come to your senses! It's really he before you!'
The cat intruded here as well.
`And I really look like a hallucination. Note my profile in the
moonlight.' The cat got into the shaft of moonlight and wanted to add
something else, but on being asked to keep silent, replied: 'Very well, very
well, I'm prepared to be silent. I'll be a silent hallucination,' and fell
silent.
'But tell me, why does Margarita call you a master?' asked Woland.
The man smiled and said:
"That is an excusable weakness. She has too high an opinion of a novel
I wrote.'
'What is this novel about?'
'It is a novel about Pontius Pilate.' Here again the tongues of the
candles swayed and leaped, the dishes on the table clattered, Woland burst
into thunderous laughter, but neither frightened nor surprised anyone.
Behemoth applauded for some reason.
'About what? About what? About whom?' said Woland, ceasing to laugh.
'And that - now? It's stupendous! Couldn't you have found some other
subject? Let me see it.' Woland held out his hand, palm up.
'Unfortunately, I cannot do that,' replied the master, `because I
burned it in the stove.'
'Forgive me, but I don't believe you,' Woland replied, 'that cannot be:
manuscripts don't burn.'[2] He turned to Behemoth and said, 'Come on.
Behemoth, let's have the novel.'
The cat instantly jumped off the chair, and everyone saw that he had
been sitting on a thick stack of manuscripts. With a bow, the cat gave the
top copy to Woland. Margarita trembled and cried out, again shaken to the
point of tears:
'It's here, the manuscript! It's here!' She dashed to Woland and added
in admiration:
'All-powerful! All-powerful!'
Woland took the manuscript that had been handed to him, turned it over,
laid it aside, and silently, without smiling, stared at the master. But he,
for some unknown reason, lapsed into anxiety and uneasiness, got up from the
chair, wrung his hands, and, quivering as he addressed the distant moon,
began to murmur:
`And at night, by moonlight, I have no peace... Why am I being
troubled? Oh, gods, gods ...'
Margarita clutched at the hospital robe, pressing herself to him, and
began to murmur herself in anguish and tears:
'Oh, God, why doesn't the medicine help you?'
'It's nothing, nothing, nothing,' whispered Koroviev, twisting about
the master, 'nothing, nothing... One more little glass, I'll keep you
company...'
And the little glass winked and gleamed in the moonlight, and this
little glass helped. The master was put back in his place, and the sick
man's face assumed a calm expression.
'Well, it's all clear now,' said Woland, tapping the manuscript with a
long finger.
'Perfectly clear,' confirmed the cat, forgetting his promise to be a
silent hallucination. 'Now the main line of this opus is thoroughly clear to
me. What do you say, Azazello?' he turned to the silent Azazello.
`I say,' the other twanged, `that it would be a good thing to drown
you.'
'Have mercy, Azazello,' the cat replied to him, 'and don't suggest the
idea to my sovereign. Believe me, every night I'd come to you in the same
moonlight garb as the poor master, and nod and beckon to you to follow me.
How would that be, Azazello?'
'Well, Margarita,' Woland again entered the conversation, `tell me
everything you need.'
Margarita's eyes lit up, and she said imploringly to Woland:
'Allow me to whisper something to him.'
Woland nodded his head, and Margarita, leaning to the master's ear,
whispered something to him. They heard him answer her.
'No, it's too late. I want nothing more in my life, except to see you.
But again I advise you to leave me, or you'll perish with me.'
'No, I won't leave you,' Margarita answered and turned to Woland:
'I ask that we be returned to the basement in the lane off the Arbat,
and that the lamp be burning, and that everything be as it was.
Here the master laughed and, embracing Margarita's long-since-uncurled
head, said:
'Ah, don't listen to the poor woman, Messire! Someone else has long
been living in the basement, and generally it never happens that anything
goes back to what it used to be.' He put his cheek to his friend's head,
embraced Margarita, and began muttering: 'My poor one ... my poor one...'
'Never happens, you say?' said Woland. That's true. But we shall try.'
And he called out: 'Azazello!'
At once there dropped from the ceiling on to the floor a bewildered and
nearly delirious citizen in nothing but his underwear, though with a
suitcase in his hand for some reason and wearing a cap. This man trembled
with fear and kept cowering.
'Mogarych?' Azazello asked of the one fallen from the sky.
'Aloisy Mogarych,'[3] the man answered, shivering. `Was it you who,
after reading Latunsky's article about this man's novel, wrote a
denunciation saying that he kept illegal literature?' asked Azazello.
The newly arrived citizen turned blue and dissolved in tears of
repentance.
'You wanted to move into his rooms?' Azazello twanged as soulfully as
he could.
The hissing of an infuriated cat was heard in the room, and Margarita,
with a howl of 'Know a witch when you see one!', sank her nails into Aloisy
Mogarych's face.
A commotion ensued.
`What are you doing?' the master cried painfully. 'Margot, don't
disgrace yourself!'
'I protest! It's not a disgrace!' shouted the cat.
Koroviev pulled Margarita away.
`I put in a bathroom...' the bloodied Mogarych cried, his teeth
chattering, and, terrified, he began pouring out some balderdash, 'the
whitewashing alone ... the vitriol...'
'Well, it's nice that you put in a bathroom,' Azazello said
approvingly, 'he needs to take baths.' And he yelled: 'Out!'
Then Mogarych was turned upside down and left Woland's bedroom through
the open window.
The master goggled his eyes, whispering:
`Now that's maybe even neater than what Ivan described!' Thoroughly
struck, he looked around and finally said to the cat: 'But, forgive me, was
it you ... was it you, sir ...' he faltered, not knowing how to address a
cat, 'are you that same cat, sir, who got on the tram?'
'I am,' the flattered cat confirmed and added: 'It's pleasing to hear
you address a cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually addressed
familiarly, though no cat has ever drunk bruderschaft with anyone.'
'It seems to me that you're not so much a cat...' the master replied
hesitantly. 'Anyway, they'll find me missing at the hospital,' he added
timidly to Woland.
'Well, how are they going to find you missing?' Koroviev soothed him,
and some papers and ledgers turned up in his hands. 'By your medical
records?'
Yes ...'
Koroviev flung the medical records into the fireplace.
'No papers, no person,' Koroviev said with satisfaction. `And this is
your landlord's house register?'
Y-yes...'
"Who is registered in it? Aloisy Mogarych?' Koroviev blew on the page
of the house register. 'Hup, two! He's not there, and, I beg you to notice,
never has been. And if this landlord gets surprised, tell him he dreamed
Aloisy up! Mogarych? What Mogarych? There was never any Mogarych!' Here the
loose-leafed book evaporated from Koroviev's hands. 'And there it is,
already back in the landlord's desk.'
'What you say is true,' the master observed, struck by the neatness of
Koroviev's work, 'that if there are no papers, there's no person. I have no
papers, so there's precisely no me.'
`I beg your pardon,' Koroviev exclaimed, `but that precisely is a
hallucination, your papers are right here.' And Koroviev handed the master
his papers. Then he rolled up his eyes and whispered sweetly to Margarita:
`And here is your property, Margarita Nikolaevna,' and Koroviev handed
Margarita the notebook with charred edges, the dried rose, the photograph,
and, with particular care, the savings book. 'Ten thousand, as you kindly
deposited, Margarita Nikolaevna. We don't need what belongs to others.'
'Sooner let my paws wither than touch what belongs to others,' the cat
exclaimed, all puffed up, dancing on the suitcase to stamp down all the
copies of the ill-fated novel.
'And your little papers as well,' Koroviev continued, handing Margarita
her papers and then turning to report deferentially to Woland:
That's all, Messire!'
'No, not all,' replied Woland, tearing himself away from the globe.
'What, dear donna, will you order me to do with your retinue? I
personally don't need them.'
Here the naked Natasha ran through the open door, clasped her hands,
and cried out to Margarita:
`Be happy, Margarita Nikolaevna!' She nodded to the master and again
turned to Margarita: 'I knew all about where you used to go.'
'Domestics know everything,' observed the cat, raising a paw
significantly. 'It's a mistake to think they're blind.'
'What do you want, Natasha?' asked Margarita. 'Go back to the house.'
`Darling Margarita Nikolaevna,' Natasha began imploringly and knelt
down, 'ask them' - she cast a sidelong glance at Woland - 'to let me stay a
witch. I don't want any more of that house! I won't marry an engineer or a
technician! Yesterday at the ball Monsieur Jacques proposed to me.' Natasha
opened her fist and showed some gold coins.
Margarita turned a questioning look to Woland. He nodded. Then Natasha
threw herself on Margarita's neck, gave her a smacking kiss, and with a
victorious cry flew out the window.
In Natasha's place Nikolai Ivanovich now stood. He had regained his
former human shape, but was extremely glum and perhaps even annoyed.
This is someone I shall dismiss with special pleasure,' said Woland,
looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with disgust, `with exceptional pleasure, so
superfluous he is here.'
'I earnestly beg that you issue me a certificate,' Nikolai Ivanovich
began with great insistence, but looking around wildly, 'as to where I spent
last night.'
'For what purpose?' the cat asked sternly.
`For the purpose of presenting it to the police and to my wife,'
Nikolai Ivanovich said firmly.
'We normally don't issue certificates,' the cat replied, frowning,
'but, very well, for you we'll make an exception.'
And before Nikolai Ivanovich had time to gather his wits, the naked
Hella was sitting at a typewriter and the cat was dictating to her.
'It is hereby certified that the bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the
said night at Satan's ball, having been summoned there in the capacity of a
means of transportation ... make a parenthesis, Hella, in the parenthesis
put "hog". Signed - Behemoth.'
'And the date?' squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.
We don't put dates, with a date the document becomes invalid,'
responded the cat, setting his scrawl to it. Then he got himself a stamp
from somewhere, breathed on it according to all the rules, stamped the word
'payed' on the paper, and handed it to Nikolai Ivanovich. After which
Nikolai Ivanovich disappeared without a trace, and in his place appeared a
new, unexpected guest.
'And who is this one?' Woland asked squeamishly, shielding himself from
the candlelight with his hand.
Varenukha hung his head, sighed, and said softly:
'Let me go back, I can't be a vampire. I almost did Rimsky in that time
with Hella. And I'm not bloodthirsty. Let me go!'
`What is all this raving!' Woland said with a wince. "Which Rimsky?
What is this nonsense?'
'Kindly do not worry, Messire,' responded Azazello, and he turned to
Varenukha: 'Mustn't be rude on the telephone. Mustn't tell lies on the
telephone. Understand? Will you do it again?'
Everything went giddy with joy in Varenukha's head, his face beamed,
and, not knowing what he was saying, he began to murmur:
'Verily ... that is, I mean to say... Your ma... right after dinner...'
Varenukha pressed his hands to his chest, looking beseechingly at Azazello.
'All right. Home with you!' the latter said, and Varenukha dissolved.
'Now all of you leave me alone with them,' ordered Woland, pointing to
the master and Margarita.
Woland's order was obeyed instantly. After some silence, Woland said to
the master:
'So it's back to the Arbat basement? And who is going to write? And the
dreams, the inspiration?'
'I have no more dreams, or inspiration either,' replied the master. 'No
one around me interests me, except her.' He again put his hand on
Margarita's head. 'I'm broken, I'm bored, and I want to be in the basement.'
'And your novel? Pilate?'
'It's hateful to me, this novel,' replied the master, 'I went through
too much because of it.'
'I implore you,' Margarita begged plaintively, 'don't talk like that.
Why do you torment me? You know I put my whole life into this work.' Turning
to Woland, Margarita also added: 'Don't listen to him, Messire, he's too
worn out.'
'But you must write about something,' said Woland. 'If you've exhausted
the procurator, well, then why not start portraying, say, this Aloisy ...'
The master smiled.
'Lapshennikova wouldn't publish that, and, besides, it's not
interesting.'
'And what are you going to live on? You'll have a beggarly existence.'
'Willingly, willingly,' replied the master, drawing Margarita to him.
He put his arm around her shoulders and added: 'She'll see reason,
she'll leave me ...'
'I doubt that,' Woland said through his teeth and went on: 'And so, the
man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate goes to the basement with the
intention of settling by the lamp and leading a beggarly existence?'
Margarita separated herself from the master and began speaking very
ardently:
'I did all I could. I whispered the most tempting thing to him. And he
refused.'
'I know what you whispered to him,' Woland retorted, 'but it is not the
most tempting thing. And to you I say,' he turned, smiling, to the master,
'that your novel will still bring you surprises.'
'That's very sad,' replied the master.
'No, no, it's not sad,' said Woland, 'nothing terrible. Well, Margarita
Nikolaevna, it has all been done. Do you have any claims against me?'
'How can you, oh, how can you, Messire! ...'
"Then take this from me as a memento,' said Woland, and he drew from
under the pillow a small golden horseshoe studded with diamonds.
'No, no, no, why on earth!'
'You want to argue with me?' Woland said, smiling.
Since Margarita had no pockets in her cloak, she put the horseshoe in a
napkin and tied it into a knot. Here something amazed her. She looked at the
window through which the moon was shining and said:
`And here's something I don't understand ... How is it midnight,
midnight, when it should have been morning long ago?'
`It's nice to prolong the festive night a little,' replied Woland.
'Well, I wish you happiness!'
Margarita prayerfully reached out both hands to Woland, but did not
dare approach him and softly exclaimed:
'Farewell! Farewell!'
'Goodbye,' said Woland.
And, Margarita in the black cloak, the master in the hospital robe,
they walked out to the corridor of the jeweller's wife's apartment, where a
candle was burning and Woland's retinue was waiting for them. When they left
the corridor, Hella was carrying the suitcase containing the novel and
Margarita Nikolaevna's few possessions, and the cat was helping Hella.
At the door of the apartment, Koroviev made his bows and disappeared,
while the rest went to accompany them downstairs. The stairway was empty. As
they passed the third-floor landing, something thudded softly, but no one
paid any attention to it. Just at the exit from the sixth stairway, Azazello
blew upwards, and as soon as they came out to the courtyard, where the
moonlight did not reach, they saw a man in a cap and boots asleep, and
obviously dead asleep, on the doorstep, as well as a big black car by the
entrance with its lights turned off. Through the windshield could be dimly
seen the silhouette of a rook.
They were just about to get in when Margarita cried softly in despair
'Oh, God, I've lost the horseshoe!'
'Get into the car,' said Azazello, 'and wait for me. I'll be right
back, I only have to see what's happened.' And he went back in.
What had happened was the following: shortly before Margarita and the
master left with their escort, a little dried-up woman carrying a can and a
bag came out of apartment no.48, which was located just under the jeweller's
wife's apartment. This was that same Annushka who on Wednesday, to Berlioz's
misfortune, had spilled sunflower oil by the turnstile.
No one knew, and probably no one will ever know, what this woman did in
Moscow or how she maintained her existence. The only thing known about her
is that she could be seen every day either with the can, or with bag and can
together, in the kerosene shop, or in the market, or under the gateway, or
on the stairs, but most often in the kitchen of apartment no.48, of which
this Annushka was one of the tenants. Besides that and above all it was
known that wherever she was or wherever she appeared, a scandal would at
once break out, and, besides, that she bore the nickname of 'the Plague'.
Annushka the Plague always got up very early for some reason, and today
something got her up in the wee hours, just past midnight. The key turned in
the door, Annushka's nose stuck out of it, then the whole of her stuck out,
she slammed the door behind her, and was about to set off somewhere when a
door banged on the landing above, someone hurded down the stairs and,
bumping into Annushka, flung her aside so that she struck the back of her
head against the wall.
'Where's the devil taking you in nothing but your underpants?' Annushka
shrieked, clutching her head.
The man in nothing but his underwear, carrying a suitcase and wearing a
cap, his eyes shut, answered Annushka in a wild, sleepy voice:
'The boiler ... the vitriol... the cost of the whitewashing alone...'
And, bursting into tears, he barked: 'Out!'
Here he dashed, not further down, but back up to where the window had
been broken by the economist's foot, and out this window he flew, legs up,
into the courtyard. Annushka even forgot about her head, gasped, and rushed
to the window herself. She lay down on her stomach on the landing and stuck
her head into the yard, expecting to see the man with the suitcase smashed
to death on the asphalt, lit up by the courtyard lantern. But on the asphalt
courtyard there was precisely nothing.
It only remained to suppose that a sleepy and strange person had flown
out of the house like a bird, leaving not a trace behind him. Annushka
crossed herself and thought: 'Yes, indeed, a nice little apartment, that
number fifty! It's not for nothing people say ... Oh, a nice little
apartment!'
Before she had time to think it through, the door upstairs slammed
again, and a second someone came running down. Annushka pressed herself to
the wall and saw a rather respectable citizen with a little beard, but, as
it seemed to Annushka, with a slightly piggish face, dart past her and, like
the first one, leave the house through the window, again without ever
thinking of smashing himself on the asphalt. Annushka had already forgotten
the purpose of her outing and stayed on the stairway, crossing herself,
gasping, and talking to herself.
A third one, without a little beard, with a round, clean-shaven face,
in a Tolstoy blouse, came running down a short while later and fluttered out
the window in just the same way.
To Annushka's credit it must be said that she was inquisitive and
decided to wait and see whether any new miracles would occur. The door above
was opened again, and now a whole company started down, not at a run, but
normally, as everybody walks. Annushka darted away from the window, went to
her own door, opened it in a trice, hid behind it, and her eye, frenzied
with curiosity, glittered in the chink she left for herself.
Someone, possibly sick or possibly not, but strange, pale, with a
stubbly beard, in a black cap and some sort of robe, walked down with
unsteady steps. He was led carefully under the arm by a lady in a black
cassock, as it seemed to Annushka in the darkness. The lady was possibly
barefoot, possibly wearing some sort of transparent, obviously imported,
shoes that were torn to shreds. Pah! Shoes my eye! ... The lady is naked!
Yes, the cassock has been thrown right over her naked body! ... `A nice
little apartment! ...' Everything in Annushka's soul sang in anticipation of
what she was going to tell the neighbours the next day.
The strangely dressed lady was followed by a completely naked one
carrying a suitcase, and next to the suitcase a huge black cat was knocking
about. Annushka almost squeaked something out loud, rubbing her eyes.
Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping foreigner, blind
in one eye, without a jacket, in a white formal waistcoat and tie. This
whole company marched downstairs past Annushka. Here something thudded on
the landing.
As the steps died away, Annushka slipped like a snake from behind the
door, put the can down by the wall, dropped to the floor on her stomach, and
began feeling around. Her hands came upon a napkin with something heavy in
it. Annushka's eyes started out of her head when she unwrapped the package.
Annushka kept bringing the precious thing right up to her eyes, and
these eyes burned with a perfectly wolfish fire. A whirlwind formed in
Annushka's head:
'I see nothing, I know nothing! ... To my nephew? Or cut it in pieces?
... I could pick the stones out, and then one by one: one to Petrovka,
another to Smolensky ... And - I see nothing, I know nothing!'
Annushka hid the found object in her bosom, grabbed the can, and was
about to slip back into her apartment, postponing her trip to town, when
that same one with the white chest, without a jacket, emerged before her
from devil knows where and quietly whispered:
'Give me the horseshoe and napkin!'
`What napkin horseshoe?' Annushka asked, shamming very artfully. 'I
don't know about any napkins. Are you drunk, citizen, or what?'
With fingers as hard as the handrails of a bus, and as cold, the
white-chested one, without another word, squeezed Annushka's throat so that
he completely stopped all access of air to her chest. The can dropped from
Annushka's hand on to the floor. After keeping Annushka without air for some
time, the jacketless foreigner removed his fingers from her throat. Gulping
air, Annushka smiled.
'Ah, the little horseshoe?' she said. This very second! So it's your
little horseshoe? And I see it lying there in a napkin, I pick it up so that
no one takes it, and then just try finding it!'
Having received the little horseshoe and napkin, the foreigner started
bowing and scraping before Annushka, shook her hand firmly, and thanked her
warmly, with the strongest of foreign accents, in the following terms:
'I am deeply grateful to you, ma'am. This little horseshoe is dear to
me as a memento. And, for having preserved it, allow me to give you two
hundred roubles.' And he took the money from his waistcoat pocket at once
and handed it to Annushka.
She, smiling desperately, could only keep exclaiming:
'Ah, I humbly thank you! Merci! Merci!'
The generous foreigner cleared a whole flight of stairs in one leap,
but, before decamping definitively, shouted from below, now without any
accent:
'You old witch, if you ever pick up somebody else's stuff again, take
it to the police, don't hide it in your bosom!'
Feeling a ringing and commotion in her head from all these events on
the stairs, Annushka went on shouting for some time by inertia:
'Merci! Merci! Merci! ...' But the foreigner was long gone. And so was
the car in the courtyard. Having returned Woland's gift to Margarita,
Azazello said goodbye to her and asked if she was comfortably seated, Hella
exchanged smacking kisses with Margarita, the cat kissed her hand, everyone
waved to the master, who collapsed lifelessly and motionlessly in the corner
of the seat, waved to the rook, and at once melted into air, considering it
unnecessary to take the trouble of climbing the stairs. The rook turned the
lights on and rolled out through the gates, past the man lying dead asleep
under the archway. And the lights of the big black car disappeared among the
other lights on sleepless and noisy Sadovaya.
An hour later, in the basement of the small house in the lane off the
Arbat, in the front room, where everything was the same as it had been
before that terrible autumn night last year, at the table covered with a
velvet tablecloth, under the shaded lamp, near which stood a little vase of
lilies of the valley, Margarita sat and wept quietly from the shock she had
experienced and from happiness. The notebook disfigured by fire lay before
her, and next to it rose a pile of intact notebooks. The little house was
silent. On a sofa in the small adjoining room, covered with the hospital
robe, the master lay in a deep sleep. His even breathing was noiseless.
Having wept her fill, Margarita went to the intact notebooks and found
the place she had been rereading before she met Azazello under the Kremlin
wall. Margarita did not want to sleep. She caressed the manuscript tenderly,
as one caresses a favourite cat, and kept turning it in her hands, examining
it from all sides, now pausing at the tide page, now opening to the end. A
terrible thought suddenly swept over her, that this was all sorcery, that
the notebooks would presently disappear from sight, and she would be in her
bedroom in the old house, and that on waking up she would have to go and
drown herself. But this was her last terrible thought, an echo of the long
suffering she had lived through. Nothing disappeared, the all-powerful
Woland really was all-powerful, and as long as she liked, even till dawn
itself, Margarita could rustle the pages of the notebooks, gaze at them,
kiss them, and read over the words:
'The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city
hated by the procurator ...' Yes, the darkness...
CHAPTER 25. How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Kiriath
The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city
hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the
dread Antonia Tower disappeared, the abyss descended from the sky and
flooded the winged gods over the hippodrome, the Hasmonaean Palace with its
loopholes, the bazaars, caravanserais, lanes, pools ... Yershalaim - the
great city - vanished as if it had never existed in the world. Everything
was devoured by the darkness, which frightened every living thing in
Yershalaim and round about. The strange cloud was swept from seaward towards
the end of the day, the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan.
It was already heaving its belly over Bald Skull, where the
executioners hastily stabbed the condemned men, it heaved itself over the
temple of Yershalaim, crept in smoky streams down the temple hill, and
flooded the Lower City. It poured through windows and drove people from the
crooked streets into the houses. It was in no hurry to yield up its moisture
and gave off only light. Each time the black smoky brew was ripped by fire,
the great bulk of the temple with its glittering scaly roof flew up out of
the pitch darkness. But the fire would instantly go out, and the temple
would sink into the dark abyss. Time and again it grew out of it and fell
back, and each time its collapse was accompanied by the thunder of
catastrophe.
Other tremulous glimmers called out of the abyss the palace of Herod
the Great, standing opposite the temple on the western hill, and its dread,
eyeless golden statues flew up into the black sky, stretching their arms out
to it. But again the heavenly fire would hide, and heavy claps of thunder
would drive the golden idols into the darkness.
The downpour burst unexpectedly, and then the storm turned into a
hurricane. In the very place where the procurator and the high priest had
had their talk around noon, by the marble bench in the garden, with the
sound of a cannon shot, a cypress snapped like a reed. Along with the watery
spray and hail, broken-off roses, magnolia leaves, small twigs and sand were
swept on to the balcony under the columns. The hurricane racked the garden.
At that time there was only one man under the columns, and that man was
the procurator.
Now he was not sitting in the chair but lying on a couch by a small,
low table set with food and jugs of wine. Another couch, empty, stood on the
other side of the table. By the procurator's feet spread an unwiped red
puddle, as if of blood, with pieces of a broken jug. The servant who was
setting the table for the procurator before the storm became disconcerted
for some reason under his gaze, grew alarmed at having displeased him in
some way, and the procurator, getting angry with him, smashed the jug on the
mosaic floor, saying:
"Why don't you look me in the face when you serve me? Have you stolen
something?'
The African's black face turned grey, mortal fear showed in his eyes,
he trembled and almost broke a second jug, but the procurator's wrath flew
away as quickly as it had flown in. The African rushed to remove the pieces
and wipe up the puddle, but the procurator waved his hand and the slave ran
away. The puddle remained.
Now, during the hurricane, the African was hiding near a niche in which
stood the statue of a white, naked woman with a drooping head, afraid of
appearing before the procurator's eyes at the wrong time, and at the same
time fearing to miss the moment when the procurator might call for him.
Lying on the couch in the storm's twilight, the procurator poured wine
into the cup himself, drank it in long draughts, occasionally touched the
bread, crumbled it, swallowed small pieces, sucked out an oyster from time
to time, chewed a lemon, and drank again.
Had it not been for the roaring of the water, had it not been for the
thunderclaps that seemed to threaten to lay flat the roof of the palace, had
it not been for the rattle of hail hammering on the steps of the balcony,
one might have heard that the procurator was muttering something, talking to
himself. And if the unsteady glimmering of the heavenly fire had turned into
a constant light, an observer would have been able to see that the
procurator's face, with eyes inflamed by recent insomnia and wine, showed
impatience, that the procurator was not only looking at the two white roses
drowned in the red puddle, but constantly turned his face towards the
garden, meeting the watery spray and sand, that he was waiting for someone,
impatiently waiting.
Time passed, and the veil of water before the procurator's eyes began
to thin. Furious as it was, the hurricane was weakening. Branches no longer
cracked and fell. The thunderclaps and flashes came less frequently. It was
no longer a violet coverlet trimmed with white, but an ordinary, grey
rear-guard cloud that floated over Yershalaim. The storm was being swept
towards the Dead Sea.
Now it was possible to hear separately the noise of the rain and the
noise of water rushing along the gutters and also straight down the steps of
that stairway upon which the procurator had walked in the afternoon to
announce the sentence in the square. And finally the hitherto drowned-out
fountain made itself heard. It was growing lighter. Blue windows appeared in
the grey veil fleeing eastward.
Here, from far off, breaking through the patter of the now quite
weakened rainfall, there came to the procurator's ears a weak sound of
trumpets and the tapping of several hundred hoofs. Hearing this, the
procurator stirred, and his face livened up. The ala was coming back from
Bald Mountain. Judging by the sound, it was passing through the same square
where the sentence had been announced.
At last the procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps and a slapping
on the stairs leading to the upper terrace of the garden, just in front of
the balcony. The procurator stretched his neck and his eyes glinted with an
expression of joy.
Between the two marble lions there appeared first a hooded head, then a
completely drenched man with his cloak clinging to his body. It was the same
man who had exchanged whispers with the procurator in a darkened room of the
palace before the sentencing, and who during the execution had sat on a
three-legged stool playing with a twig.
Heedless of puddles, the man in the hood crossed the garden terrace,
stepped on to the mosaic floor of the balcony, and, raising his arm, said in
a high, pleasant voice:
'Health and joy to the procurator!' The visitor spoke in Latin.
'Gods!' exclaimed Pilate. 'There's not a dry stitch on you! What a
hurricane! Eh? I beg you to go inside immediately. Do me a favour and change
your clothes.'
The visitor threw back his hood, revealing a completely wet head with
hair plastered to the forehead, and, showing a polite smile on his
clean-shaven face, began refusing to change, insisting that a little rain
would not hurt him.
'I won't hear of it,' Pilate replied and clapped his hands. With that
he called out the servants who were hiding from him, and told them to take
care of the visitor and then serve the hot course immediately.
The procurator's visitor required very little time to dry his hair,
change his clothes and shoes, and generally put himself in order, and he
soon appeared on the balcony in dry sandals, a dry crimson military cloak,
and with slicked-down hair.
Just then the sun returned to Yershalaim, and, before going to drown in
the Mediterranean Sea, sent farewell rays to the city hated by the
procurator and gilded the steps of the balcony. The fountain revived
completely and sang away with all its might, doves came out on the sand,
cooing, hopping over broken branches, pecking at something in the wet sand.
The red puddle was wiped up, the broken pieces were removed, meat steamed on
the table.
'I wait to hear the procurator's orders,' said the visitor, approaching
the table.
'But you won't hear anything until you sit down and drink some wine,'
Pilate replied courteously and pointed to the other couch.
The visitor reclined, a servant poured some thick red wine into his
cup. Another servant, leaning cautiously over Pilate's shoulder, filled the
procurator's cup. After that, he motioned for the two servants to withdraw.
While the visitor drank and ate, Pilate, sipping his wine, kept
glancing with narrowed eyes at his guest. The man who had come to Pilate was
middle-aged, with a very pleasant, rounded and neat face and a fleshy mouth.
His hair was of some indeterminate colour. Now, as it dried, it became
lighter. It would be difficult to establish the man's nationality. The chief
determinant of his face was perhaps its good-natured expression, which,
however, was not in accord with his eyes, or, rather, not his eyes but the
visitor's way of looking at his interlocutor. Ordinarily he kept his small
eyes under his lowered, somewhat strange, as if slightly swollen eyelids.
Then the slits of these eyes shone with an unspiteful slyness. It must be
supposed that the procurator's guest had a propensity for humour. But
occasionally, driving this glittering humour from the slits entirely, the
procurator's present guest would open his eyelids wide and look at his
interlocutor suddenly and point-blank, as if with the purpose of rapidly
scrutinizing some inconspicuous spot on his interlocutor's nose. This lasted
only an instant, after which the eyelids would lower again, the slits would
narrow, and once again they would begin to shine with good-naturedness and
sly intelligence.
The visitor did not decline a second cup of wine, swallowed a few
oysters with obvious pleasure, tried some steamed vegetables, ate a piece of
meat. Having eaten his fill, he praised the wine:
`An excellent vintage, Procurator, but it is not Falerno?''
'Caecuba, [2] thirty years old,' the procurator replied courteously.
The guest put his hand to his heart, declined to eat more, declared that he
was full. Then Pilate filled his own cup, and the guest did the same. Both
diners poured some wine from their cups on to the meat platter, and the
procurator, raising his cup, said loudly:
'For us, for thee, Caesar, father of the Romans, best and dearest of
men! ...'
After this they finished the wine, and the Africans removed the food
from the table, leaving the fruit and the jugs. Again the procurator
motioned for the servants to withdraw and remained alone with his guest
under the colonnade.
'And so,' Pilate began in a low voice, 'what can you tell me about the
mood of this city?'
He inadvertently turned his eyes to where the colonnades and flat roofs
below, beyond the terraces of the garden, were drying out, gilded by the
last rays.
`I believe, Procurator,' the guest replied, `that the mood of
Yershalaim is now satisfactory.'
'So it can be guaranteed that there is no threat of further disorders?'
'Only one thing can be guaranteed in this world,' the guest replied,
glancing tenderly at the procurator, 'the power of great Caesar.'
'May the gods grant him long life!' Pilate picked up at once, 'and
universal peace!' He paused and then continued: 'So you believe the troops
can now be withdrawn?'
'I believe that the cohort of the Lightning legion can go,' the guest
replied and added: 'It would be good if it paraded through the city in
farewell.'
'A very good thought,' the procurator approved, 'I will dismiss it the
day after tomorrow, and go myself, and - I swear to you by the feast of the
twelve gods, [3] by the lares [4] I swear - I'd give a lot to be able to do
so today!'
'The procurator doesn't like Yershalaim?' the guest asked
good-naturedly.
`Good heavens,' the procurator exclaimed, smiling, `there's no more
hopeless place on earth. I'm not even speaking of natural conditions - I get
sick every time I have to come here - but that's only half the trouble! ...
But these feasts! ... Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, these flocks of
pilgrims! ... Fanatics, fanatics! ... Just take this messiah [5] they
suddenly started expecting this year! Every moment you think you're about to
witness the most unpleasant bloodshed... The shifting of troops all the
time, reading denunciations and calumnies, half of which, moreover, are
written against yourself! You must agree, it's boring. Oh, if it weren't for
the imperial service!'
'Yes, the feasts are hard here,' agreed the guest.
'I wish with all my heart that they should be over soon,' Pilate added
energetically. `I will finally have the possibility of going back to
Caesarea. Believe me, this delirious construction of Herod's' - the
procurator waved his arm along the colonnade, to make clear that he was
speaking of the palace - 'positively drives me out of my mind! I cannot
spend my nights in it. The world has never known a stranger architecture!
... Well, but let's get back to business. First of all, this cursed
Bar-Rabban - you're not worried about him?'
And here the guest sent his peculiar glance at the procur