Quotes The Master and Margarita Online. "The Master and Margarita": four different readings

Behemoth, Koroviev, Gella and Azazello silently looked at the shaking Verkhovensky; not from fear, but some kind of frequent trembling from overstrained nerves, as if in a fever. Even Fagot and his page sat quietly, not, as always, making witticisms on any occasion.
- Will you have some vodka? - Gella suggested in a usual barking voice, unexpectedly for herself. Verkhovensky, in response, somehow absent-mindedly, looking at her and not seeing, waved his head, walked up to them with an unsteady step, sat down next to them and, not embarrassed by the presence of his retinue, burst into tears. It wasn’t Erkel specifically or even Shatov who knocked him out of the rut, but somehow everything, all the impressions and sensations, merging into one frightening reality, completely broke him. Burying his hands in his hair, he sometimes shuddered with his whole being. Just because you need to cry. After all, sometimes every mortal must cry out everything that has accumulated, otherwise you can go crazy.
“It’s all over, Pyotr Stepanovich,” said Behemoth, diligently trying to squeeze out at least a semblance of compassion.
“Moreover,” Koroviev cried out of place loudly and joyfully, “the most pleasant, final part awaits you!”
Verkhovensky even took his hands away from his tear-stained face in amazement. My heart started beating fast for some reason.
- The last wish of a mortal is law. Use all your imagination, Pyotr Stepanovich! However, I warn you that paradoxes don’t work and, let’s say, you won’t be able to come to life again,” Fagot smiled idiotically, pleased with himself, but immediately faded away under the destroying gaze of the red-haired witch’s phosphorite eyes. Everyone sitting looked at Verkhovensky.
- We can even ease your suffering, if you want. We are not rushing you, Pyotr Stepanovich.
- Come on, for yourself, Pyotr Stepanovich. We will review and take note.
I didn't have to think long. Having collected himself and stopped shuddering, he said:
“Three years ago,” inhale, “Nikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin died. He hanged himself. I ask, if possible, to ease his suffering. He deserved peace.
The silence that followed the last request was broken by a whistle. With lightning speed, a small scroll flew out of the wall and crashed into Fagot’s bony chest so that he even suffocated. While Koroviev was dying spectacularly, Gella stood up and walked over, sudden movement tore out the message. I unfolded it and read it. At first her face turned very pale, but then she rolled up the document and began beating Behemoth and Koroviev with this manuscript, shouting in between knockouts:
- It's all of you, you, you! you even introduce You can’t, how will we get screwed by Messire! You, you started this, you brainless idiots! It was really necessary to organize lynching over this! - She pointed to Verkhovensky. - Idiots! - The blow hit the very ear of the Behemoth, - Cretins, both of you! - On the back of Bassoon.
The hysterical righteous revenge was interrupted by Azazello. He approached the angry witch, took the message from her hands, unfolded it and read out loud just one sentence:
- He's not ready yet.
The entire retinue, standing in depression and confusion, slowly turned their gaze to Pyotr Stepanovich. He did not understand a single word of what was said.
- What are you not ready for? - That’s all he said.
“How can I explain it to you like this...” having come to his senses, Behemoth began guiltily, rubbing his bruised sides. - Here... an order came from above, from the very top, so to speak, and...
“In short,” interrupted Gella, taking the package and putting it in the fireplace, “you are going back.” Messire believes that you are not ready yet... But with both of you, I don’t even know what I’ll do!!! - she yelled and began to beat only her friends who had moved away from the news. - You yourself will apologize to Messire, understand? I want you to...
- Good yelling! - the silent Azazello said in a nasal voice. “You’ll deal with them later, but now we need to send this one.”
- …Where? - Still not understanding anything, asked Verkhovensky.
- They are bringing you back, Pyotr Stepanovich. You will forget everything that happened here. Even though you lost man, but from above they decided that they were not ready, sir. It’s all because of your desire, probably,” here Fagot groaned, clutching his back, and fell into his chair.
“This happens very rarely,” the cat said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. - So now you are returning back, with your wish fulfilled, but completely forgetting about everything that happened here.
- So that’s it? - Verkhovensky said in disbelief.
- Yes, back. Although you don’t have much time left,” said Fagot, coming up to him and putting his hand on his shoulder.

And then everything disappeared.
For one moment.

Geneva. The wonderful, picturesque city was especially beautiful on this full moon night. The grass rustled from the light cool breeze, White light illuminated the entire area, including the shiny green roof of the station building. The soothing darkness and favorable weather left their mark on everything. Everything was forgotten, everything was asleep.
Only Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky suddenly woke up, rubbing his sleepy eyes from bright light and loud French speech right above your ear.

The autumn night of 18** in Switzerland turned out to be unusually serene and warm. There were only two topics on the agenda for the residents of Geneva: what wonderful weather it is today, isn't it? - and the second is less obvious. It turned out that on that very night, on a train from Bien to Geneva, a certain Russian revolutionary was detained, who, as it turned out, had been hiding for three years right here in Switzerland. From day to day, the enlightened Swiss intelligentsia was waiting for news of the trial being carried out over the unexpectedly revealed criminal.

They said that he behaved strangely during his arrest: he kept laughing and repeating one single phrase in Russian:

“A revolutionary is a doomed man.”

…among human vices He considers cowardice one of the most important.

Insult is a common reward for good work.

– What is an official person or an unofficial person? All this depends on from what point of view you look at the subject; all this, Nikanor Ivanovich, is conditional and unsteady. Today I am an unofficial person, and tomorrow, you see, I am an official person! And it happens the other way around, Nikanor Ivanovich. And how it happens!

It is easy and pleasant to speak the truth.

No document, no person.

And why the hell do you need a tie if you're not wearing pants?

Cats are not supposed to wear pants.

I'm broken, I'm bored, and I want to go to the basement.

Everything will be right, the world is built on this.

Do you judge by the suit? Never do this, most precious guardian! You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that.

Most terrible anger, anger of powerlessness.

“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.

Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.

Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently.

“I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. - Dostoevsky is immortal!

I went to bed sick and woke up sick. It suddenly seemed to me that the autumn darkness would squeeze out the glass, pour into the room and I would choke in it like in ink.

Listen to the soundlessness, listen and enjoy what you were not given in life - silence.

These women are difficult people!

Sometimes The best way to destroy a person is to let him choose his own fate.

You need to be able to seize good moments and take advantage of them.

She entered the gate once, and before that I had experienced at least ten heartbeats...

Why pursue in the footsteps of something that has long been over?

I believe! These eyes don't lie. After all, how many times have I told you that your main mistake is that you underestimate the values human eyes. Understand that the tongue can hide the truth, but the eyes can never! You are asked a sudden question, you don’t even flinch, in one second you control yourself and know what needs to be said in order to hide the truth, and you speak very convincingly, and not a single wrinkle on your face moves, but, alas, the truth, alarmed by the question, with the bottom of the soul jumps into your eyes for a moment, and it’s all over. She's spotted and you're caught!

We are talking to you in different languages“, as always,” Woland responded, “but the things we are talking about do not change because of this.

My drama is that I live with someone I don’t love, but I consider it unworthy to ruin his life.

It's nice to hear that you treat your cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually called “you,” although not a single cat has ever drunk brotherhood with anyone.

Evil people no in the world, there are only unhappy people.

– And I really look like a hallucination. Please take a look at my profile on 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.

Fact is the most stubborn thing in the world.

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.

A brick will never fall on anyone’s head for no reason at all.

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!

A person without a surprise inside, in his box, is uninteresting.

Yes, man is mortal, but that would not be so bad. The bad thing is that he is sometimes suddenly mortal, that's the trick! And he can’t say at all what he will do this evening.

...what would do your good, if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?

- Is this vodka? – Margarita asked weakly.

The cat jumped up in his chair from offense.

“For mercy, queen,” he croaked, “would I allow myself to pour vodka for the lady?” This is pure alcohol!

Never ask for anything! Never and nothing, and especially among those who are stronger than you. They will offer and give everything themselves!

I protest! Dostoevsky is immortal!

Okay, okay, I'm ready to remain silent. I will be a silent hallucination.

For mercy, queen, would I allow myself to pour vodka for the lady? This is pure alcohol!

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, they are frivolous... well, well... and mercy sometimes knocks on their hearts... ordinary people...in general, they resemble the previous ones... housing problem I just ruined them...

Manuscripts don't burn.

Well, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.

Whether these silhouettes existed or whether they were just imagined by the fear-stricken residents of the ill-fated house on Sadovaya, of course, it is impossible to say with certainty. If they were, where they went directly, no one knows either. We also cannot say where they separated, but we know that about a quarter of an hour after the fire started on Sadovaya, a tall citizen in a checkered suit and with him a large black cat appeared at the mirrored doors of the torgsin on the Smolensk market.

Deftly wriggling among the passers-by, the citizen opened the outer door of the store. But then a small, bony and extremely unfriendly doorman blocked his way and said irritably:

Cats are not allowed.

“I’m sorry,” the tall one rattled and put his gnarled hand to his ear, like someone who was hard of hearing, “with cats, are you talking?” Where do you see the cat?

The doorman's eyes bulged, and there was a reason: there was no longer any cat near the citizen's legs, and instead, from behind his shoulder, a fat man in a torn cap was already sticking out and rushing into the store, his face actually looked a little like a cat. The fat man had a primus stove in his hands.

For some reason the misanthrope doorman did not like this couple of visitors.

“We only have money for currency,” he croaked, looking irritably from under his shaggy, moth-eaten gray eyebrows.

“My dear,” the tall one rattled, his eyes sparkling from his broken pince-nez, “how do you know that I don’t have it?” Do you judge by the suit?

Never do this, most precious guardian! You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that. At least re-read the story of the famous caliph Harun al-Rashid. In this case, putting this story aside temporarily, I want to tell you that I will complain about you to the manager and tell him about such things that you should not have left your post between the sparkling mirror doors.

“I have, perhaps, a full primus of currency,” the cat-shaped fat man passionately butted into the conversation, rushing into the store. The audience was already pressing and angry from behind. Looking with hatred and doubt at the outlandish couple, the doorman stepped aside, and our acquaintances, Koroviev and Hippopotamus, found themselves in the store.

Here they first looked around, and then in a ringing voice, heard in all corners, Koroviev announced:

Wonderful store! Very, very good store!

The audience turned around from the counters and for some reason looked at the speaker with amazement, although he had every reason to praise the store.

Hundreds of pieces of cotton in the richest colors were visible in the shelf cages. Behind them were piled up calicoes and shirts and cloths of tailcoats. Whole stacks of boxes of shoes stretched into the perspective, and several citizens sat on low chairs, their right foot in an old, battered shoe, and their left foot in a new sparkling boat, which they were preoccupied with stamping on the new carpet. Somewhere in the depths around the corner, gramophones were singing and playing.

But, bypassing all these delights, Koroviev and Behemoth headed straight to the junction of the gastronomic and confectionery departments. It was very spacious here, the citizens in headscarves and berets did not press against the counters, as in the chintz department.

A short, completely square man, blue-shaven, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a brand new hat, a ribbon that was not wrinkled or streaked, wearing a lilac coat and red khaki gloves, stood at the counter and hummed something commandingly. A salesman in a clean white robe and a blue cap was serving a lilac client. With a very sharp knife, very similar to the knife stolen by Matthew Levi, he removed the fat, crying pink salmon-like skin with a silvery tint.

And this department is magnificent,” Koroviev solemnly admitted, “and the foreigner is handsome,” he benevolently pointed his finger at the lilac back.

No, Bassoon, no,” Behemoth answered thoughtfully, “you, my friend, are mistaken.” There is something missing in the face of the lilac gentleman, in my opinion.

The lilac back trembled, but probably by accident, for the foreigner could not understand what Koroviev and his companion were saying in Russian.

Karoshi? - the lilac buyer asked sternly.

“Worldwide,” answered the seller, coquettishly picking under the skin with the tip of a knife.

I love Karoshi, but I don’t like the bad one,” the foreigner said sternly.

Why! - the seller answered enthusiastically.

Here our acquaintances walked away from the foreigner with his voice to the edge of the confectionery counter.

“It’s hot today,” Koroviev addressed the young, red-cheeked saleswoman, and did not receive any answer from her. -How much are tangerines? - Koroviev asked her then.

“Thirty kopecks a kilo,” answered the saleswoman.

“Everything bites,” Koroviev noted with a sigh, “eh, eh...” He thought a little more and invited his companion: “Eat, Behemoth.”

The fat man took his primus under his arm, took possession of the top mandarin in the pyramid and, immediately devouring it with its skin, began to take the second one.

The saleswoman was seized with mortal horror.

The vysumas are gone! - she cried, losing her blush, - hand over the check! Check! - and she dropped the candy tongs.

Darling, darling, beauty,” Koroviev wheezed, waddling over the counters and winking at the saleswoman, “we’re not in the money today... well, what can you do!” But, I swear to you, next time, and certainly no later than Monday, we will give everything back clean. We are not far from here, on Sadovaya, where the fire is.

The hippopotamus, having swallowed the third tangerine, stuck its paw into the tricky structure of chocolate bars, pulled out one of the bottom ones, which, of course, caused everything to collapse, and swallowed it along with the golden wrapper.

The sellers behind the fish counter stood petrified with their knives in their hands, the lilac foreigner turned to the robbers, and it was immediately discovered that the Behemoth was wrong: the lilac one did not lack something in his face, but, on the contrary, there was rather something extra - drooping cheeks and shifty eyes.

Having turned completely yellow, the saleswoman sadly shouted to the whole store:

Palosic! Palosic!

The audience from the calico department shouted this cry, and Behemoth gave up the temptation of the confectionery and threw it into a barrel with the inscription: “Selected Kerch herring,” pulled out a couple of herrings and swallowed them, spitting out the tails.

Palosic! - the desperate cry was repeated at the confectionery counter, and behind the fish counter the salesman in a goatee barked:

What are you doing, you bastard?!

Pavel Iosifovich was already hurrying to the scene. He was a representative man in a clean white robe, like a surgeon, and with a pencil sticking out of his pocket. Pavel Iosifovich, apparently, was an experienced person. Seeing Behemoth's tail of the third herring, he instantly assessed the situation, decisively understood and, without entering into any bickering with the scoundrels, waved his hand into the distance, commanding:

Whistle!

At the corner of Smolensky, a doorman flew out of the mirrored doors and let out an ominous whistle. The public began to surround the scoundrels, and then Koroviev entered the picture.

Citizens! - he shouted in a vibrating thin voice, - what is this being done? Ass? Let me ask you about this! Poor man,” Koroviev let his voice tremble and pointed to Behemoth, who immediately put on a tearful face, “the poor man spends the whole day fixing the primus; he’s hungry... and where can he get the currency?

Pavel Iosifovich, usually reserved and calm, shouted at this sternly:

Give it up! - and waved into the distance more patiently. Then the bells at the doors began to ring more cheerfully.

But Koroviev, not embarrassed by Pavel Iosifovich’s speech, continued:

Where? - asking everyone a question! He is exhausted by hunger and thirst! He’s hot. Well, the unfortunate mandarin took a sample. And the whole price of this mandarin is three kopecks. And now they’re whistling like nightingales in the forest in the spring, disturbing the police, taking them away from their case. Is he allowed? A? - and then Koroviev pointed to the lilac fat man, which caused the strongest anxiety to appear on his face, - who is he? Eh? Where did he come from? Why? Are we bored without him? Those who invited him, or what? Of course,” the former regent shouted sarcastically at the top of his voice, “you see, he’s in a ceremonial lilac suit, he’s all swollen from salmon, he’s all stuffed with currency, but for ours, for ours?! I'm sad! Bitterly! Bitterly! - Koroviev howled, like the best man at an ancient wedding.

This whole stupid, tactless and probably politically harmful thing made Pavel Iosifovich shudder angrily, but, strangely enough, it was clear from the eyes of the crowded audience that it aroused sympathy in many people! And when Behemoth, holding his dirty, torn sleeve to his eye, exclaimed tragically:

Thank you, faithful friend, you stood up for the victim! - a miracle happened. A very decent, quiet old man, dressed poorly but cleanly, the old man, who was buying tri-almond cakes in the confectionery department, suddenly changed. His eyes flashed with the fire of war, he turned purple, threw the bag of cakes on the floor and shouted:

Is it true! - in a childish thin voice. Then he grabbed a tray, throwing off the remains of the chocolate Eiffel Tower destroyed by Hippo, waved it, tore off the foreigner’s hat with his left hand, and with his right hand immediately hit the foreigner’s bald head with the flat of the tray. The kind of sound that happens when sheet iron is thrown to the ground from a truck. The fat man, turning white, fell on his back and sat down in a tub with Kerch herring, knocking out a fountain of herring brine. Then the second miracle happened. Lilac, having fallen into the tub, spoke in pure Russian, without any signs of an accent , cried:

They are killing! The police! The bandits are killing me! - obviously, as a result of shock, having suddenly mastered a language hitherto unknown to him.

Then the doorman's whistle stopped, and in the crowds of excited shoppers, two police helmets flashed closer. But the insidious Behemoth, like a gang dousing a shop in a bathhouse, doused the primus confectionery counter with gasoline, and it burst into flames on its own. The flame hit the top and ran along the counter, devouring the beautiful paper ribbons on the fruit baskets. The saleswomen rushed to run screaming from behind the counter, or as soon as they jumped out from behind it, the linen curtains on the windows flared up and gasoline caught fire on the floor. The public, immediately raising a desperate cry, rushed back from the confectionery shop, crushing the no longer needed Pavel Iosifovich, and from behind the fish one, in single file with their sharpened knives, they ran at a trot to the doors of the black sellers are on their way. The lilac citizen, having torn himself out of the tub, covered in herring slush, fell over the counter and followed them. The glass in the exit mirror doors, squeezed out by the fleeing people, began to ring and fell, and both scoundrels - Koroviev and the glutton Behemoth - disappeared somewhere, but it was impossible to understand where. Later the eyewitnesses Those present at the start of the fire in Torgsin on Smolensky said that both hooligans flew up to the ceiling and there they both seemed to burst, like children’s balloons. It is, of course, doubtful that this is exactly the case, but what we don’t know is what we don’t know.

But we know that exactly a minute after the incident on Smolensk, both Behemoth and Koroviev were already on the sidewalk of the boulevard, just opposite the house of Griboyedov’s aunt. Koroviev stopped at the bars and spoke:

Bah! But this is a writer’s house. You know, Behemoth, I’ve heard a lot of good and flattering things about this house. Pay attention, my friend, to this house! It’s nice to think that under this roof a whole abyss of talent is hiding and ripening.

“Like a pineapple in a greenhouse,” said Behemoth, in order to better admire the cream-colored house with columns, he climbed onto the concrete base of the cast-iron lattice.

“Absolutely,” Koroviev agreed with his inseparable companion, “and a sweet horror comes to your heart when you think that in this house the future author of Don Quixote, or Faust, or, damn me, is now keeping up.” Dead souls"! A?

“It’s scary to think,” confirmed Behemoth.

Yes,” Koroviev continued, “amazing things can be expected in the greenhouses of this house, which united under its roof several thousand ascetics who decided to give their lives selflessly to the service of Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia. Can you imagine what a fuss there will be when one of them first presents the reading public with “The Inspector General” or, at worst, “Eugene Onegin”!

And it’s very simple,” Behemoth again confirmed.

Yes,” Koroviev continued and raised his finger in concern, “but! But, I say and repeat this, but!” If these delicate greenhouse plants are not attacked by some microorganism, do not undermine them at the root, if they do not rot! And this happens with pineapples! Oh-oh-oh, how it happens!

By the way,” inquired Hippopotamus, sticking his round head through the hole in the bars, “what are they doing on the veranda?”

They’re having lunch,” Koroviev explained, “I’ll add to this, my dear, that this is a very nice and inexpensive restaurant. And I, like every tourist before a further journey, feel the urge to have a snack and drink a large, ice-cold mug of beer.

“Me too,” answered Behemoth, and both scoundrels walked along the asphalt path under the linden trees straight to the veranda of the restaurant, which did not sense trouble.

A pale and bored citizen in white socks and a white beret with a ponytail was sitting on a Viennese chair at the entrance to the veranda of the corner, where the entrance hole was made in the green trellis. In front of the simple kitchen table lay a thick office-type book in which the citizen, for unknown reasons, recorded those entering the restaurant. It was this citizen who stopped Cor. Oviev and Hippopotamus.

Your credentials? - She looked with surprise at Koroviev’s pince-nez, as well as at Behemoth’s primus stove, and at Behemoth’s torn elbow.

I offer you a thousand apologies, what kind of identification? - Koroviev asked, surprised.

Are you writers? - the citizen asked in turn.

“Of course,” Koroviev answered with dignity.

Your credentials? - the citizen repeated.

My beauty... - Koroviev began tenderly.

“I’m not a charm,” the citizen interrupted him.

“Oh, what a pity this is,” Koroviev said disappointedly, and continued: “Well, if you don’t want to be a charm, which would be very pleasant, you don’t have to be one.” So, to make sure that Dostoevsky is a writer, is it really necessary to ask him for his identification? Yes, you take any five pages from any of his novels, and without any identification you will be convinced that you are a writer. I suppose that he did not have any identification! How do you think? - Koroviev turned to Behemoth.

“I bet it wasn’t,” he answered, putting the Primus stove on the table next to the book and wiping the sweat on his sooty forehead with his hand.

“You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.

Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.

Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently.

“I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. - Dostoevsky is immortal!

Your certificates, citizens,” said the citizen.

For pity’s sake, this is, after all, ridiculous,” Koroviev did not give up, “a writer is not determined by his certificate, but by what he writes!” How do you know what plans are swarming in my head? Or this head? - and he pointed to the head of Behemoth, from which he immediately took off his cap, as if so that the citizen could examine it better.

Let us in, citizens,” she said, already nervous.

Koroviev and Behemoth stepped aside and let some writer through gray suit, in a summer white shirt without a tie, the collar of which lay wide on the collar of his jacket, with a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded affably to the citizen, placed some kind of squiggle in the book offered to him and proceeded to the veranda.

Alas, we don’t, we don’t,” Koroviev said sadly, “but he will get this ice-cold mug of beer that we, poor wanderers, so dreamed of, our situation is sad and difficult, and I don’t know what to do.”

The hippopotamus just threw up his hands bitterly and put the cap on his round head, overgrown with thick hair, very similar to cat fur. And at that moment, a quiet but authoritative voice sounded above the citizen’s head:

Let me in, Sofya Pavlovna.

The citizen with the book was amazed; in the green trellis appeared a white tailcoat chest and a wedge-shaped beard and a filibuster. He looked friendly at the two dubious ragamuffins and, even more than that, made inviting gestures to them. The authority of Archibald Archibaldovich was a thing that was seriously felt in the restaurant that he was in charge of, and Sofya Pavlov humbly asked Koroviev:

What's your last name?

“Panaev,” he answered politely. The citizen wrote down this name and raised a questioning glance at Behemoth.

Skabichevsky,” he squeaked, for some reason pointing to his primus stove. Sofya Pavlovna wrote this down and pushed the book towards the visitors so that they could sign it. Koroviev wrote “Skabichevsky” against Panaev, and Behemoth wrote “Panaev” against Skabichevsky. ArchibaldArchibaldovich, completely astonishing Sofya Pavlovna, smiling seductively, led the guests to the best table at the opposite end of the veranda, where the thickest shadow lay, to a table near which the sun was cheerfully playing through the slits of the trellis greenery. Sofya Pavlovna, Blinking in amazement, she studied for a long time the strange entries made by unexpected visitors in the book.

Archibald Archibaldovich surprised the waiters no less than Sofya Pavlovna. He personally pushed the chair away from the table, inviting Koroviev to sit down, blinked at one, whispered something to the other, and two waiters fussed around the new guests, one of whom placed his primus stove next to his rusty shoe on the floor. Immediately an old tablecloth with yellow spots disappeared from the table, in the air, crisp with starch, another white one, like a Bedouin burnous, flew up, and Archibald Archibaldovich whispered quietly, but very

expressively, leaning towards Koroviev’s very ear:

What will I serve? I have a special little pin... I tore it off at the architects' congress...

You...uh...give us a snack anyway...uh...- Koroviev hummed benevolently, leaning back on his chair.

“I understand,” Archibald Archibaldovich answered meaningfully, closing his eyes.

Seeing how the restaurant chef treated the most dubious visitors, the waiters cast aside all doubts and got down to business seriously. One was already bringing a match to Hippopotamus, who took a cigarette butt out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, the other flew up, clinking green glass and displaying shot glasses, lafitniks and thin-walled glasses from which it is so good to drink narzan under the awning. .. no, getting ahead of ourselves, let's say... drinking narzan under the awning of the unforgettable Griboedov veranda.

“I can treat you to a hazel fillet,” Archibald Archibaldovich purred musically. The guest, wearing a cracked penny, did not fully approve of the brig commander’s proposals and looked favorably at him through the useless glass.

The novelist Petrakov-Sukhovey, who was dining at the next table with his wife, who was finishing the pork escalope, with the observation characteristic of all writers, noticed the advances of Archibald Archibaldovich and was very surprised. His wife, a very respectable lady, was simply jealous of the pirate Koroviev and even tapped with a spoon... - And why, they say, are they detaining us... it’s time to serve ice cream! What's the matter?

However, having sent Petrakova a seductive smile, Archibald Archibaldovich directed the waiter to her, and did not leave his dear guests. Ah, Archibald Archibaldovich was smart! And he is observant, perhaps, no less than the writers themselves. Archibald Archibaldovich knew about the show at the Variety Show, and heard many other incidents of these days, but, unlike others, he did not miss the word “checkered” or the word “cat.” Archibald Archibaldovich immediately guessed who his visitors were. And having guessed, naturally, I did not quarrel with them. But Sofya Pavlovna is good! After all, you have to invent this - to block these two’s path to the veranda! But what can I ask her?

Arrogantly jabbed her spoon into the soggy creamy ice cream, Petrakova watched with dissatisfied eyes as the table in front of two people dressed as some kind of clowns, as if by magic, was overgrown with dishes. The lettuce leaves, washed to a shine, were already sticking out of the vase with fresh caviar... an instant, and a foggy silver bucket appeared on a specially moved separate table...

Only after making sure that everything was done honorably, only when a closed frying pan flew into the hands of the waiters, in which something was grumbling, Archibald Archibaldovich allowed himself to leave the two mysterious visitors, and only then after whispering to them:

- Sorry! For a minute! I’ll personally take care of the fillets.

He flew away from the table and disappeared into the interior passage of the restaurant. If any observer could follow the further actions of Archibald Archibaldovich, they would undoubtedly seem somewhat mysterious to him.

The chef did not go to the kitchen to watch the fillets, but to the restaurant’s pantry. He opened it with his key, locked himself in it, carefully took out two weighty balyks from the ice chest so as not to stain the cuffs, packed them in newsprint, carefully tied them with a string and put them aside. Then in the next room he checked to see if his silk-lined summer coat and hat were still there, and only after that he went to the kitchen, where the cook was carefully cutting up the fillets the pirate had promised to the guests.

It must be said that there was nothing strange or mysterious in all of Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions, and such actions could only be considered strange by a superficial observer. Archibald Archibaldovich’s actions followed completely logically from everything that had gone before. Knowledge latest events, and most importantly, Archibald Archibaldovich’s phenomenal instinct told the chef of the Griboyedov restaurant that the lunch of his two visitors, although plentiful and luxurious, would be extremely short. And his instincts, which never deceived the former filibuster, did not let him down this time.

While Koroviev and Bege were drinking their second glass of excellent, cold Moscow double-purified vodka, the nervous and excited chronicler Boba Kandalupsky, known in Moscow for his amazing omniscience, appeared on the veranda and immediately sat down next to Petrakov. Putting his swollen briefcase on the table, Bob immediately stuck his lip into Petrakov’s ear and whispered some very seductive things to him. Madame Petrakova, languishing with curiosity, put her ear to Boby’s plump, oily lips, and he, occasionally looking around like a thief, kept whispering and whispering, and one could hear individual words like these:

“I swear on your honor! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya,” Boba lowered his voice even more, “they don’t take bullets.” Bullets... bullets... gasoline, fire... bullets...

“Those liars who spread nasty rumors,” Madame Petrakova boomed in her contralt voice in indignation, a little louder than Boba would have liked, “they should be explained!” Well, never mind, it will be so, they will be put in order! What harmful lies!

“What bastards, Antonida Porfiryevna!” exclaimed Boba, upset by the disbelief of the writer’s wife, and whistled again: “I’m telling you, the bullets don’t take... And now there’s a fire... They’re in the air... in the air,” Boba hissed, not suspecting that you, the window says, are sitting next to him , enjoying his whistle. However, this pleasure soon ceased. Three men with tightly belted waists, cuffs and revolvers in their hands quickly emerged from the interior passage of the restaurant onto the veranda. The one in front shouted loudly and terribly:

- Don `t move! - and immediately all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming at the heads of Koroviev and Behemoth. Both of those being fired upon now melted in the air, and a column of fire hit the awning from the primus stove. It was as if a gaping mouth with black edges appeared in the tent and began to crawl in all directions. The fire, rushing through it, rose to the very roof of the Griboyedov house. Folders with papers lying on the second floor window in the editorial room suddenly flared up, and behind them the curtain caught, and then the fire, humming, as if someone was fanning it, went in pillars inside the aunt’s house.

A few seconds later, along the asphalt paths leading to the cast-iron grating of the boulevard, from where on Wednesday evening the first messenger of misfortune Ivanushka came, not understood by anyone, now the underfed writers, waiters, Sofya Pavlovna, Boba, Petrakova, Petrakov were running.

Having left through a side passage in advance, without running away and without hurrying anywhere, like a captain who is obliged to be the last to leave a burning brig, stood the calm Archibald Archibaldovich in »

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When Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov wrote a novel about the Master, he hardly imagined that he was creating the most significant work Russian literature of the twentieth century. Today the work is deservedly included in the lists of the most books read world, while remaining the object of endless debate among literary scholars and philosophers.

And for website“The Master and Margarita” is just a favorite story, full of mysteries and infinite wisdom. What is needed most in our difficult times.

• Who told you that there is no real, true, eternal love? May the liar's vile tongue be cut out!
• We speak different languages, as always, but the things we talk about do not change.
• Evil lurks in men who avoid wine, games, the company of lovely women, and table conversation. Such people are either seriously ill or secretly hate those around them.
• There are no evil people in the world, there are only unhappy people.
• These women are difficult people!
• A person without a surprise inside, in his box, is uninteresting.
• Everything will be right, the world is built on this.
• Yes, man is mortal, but that would not be so bad. The bad thing is that he is sometimes suddenly mortal, that's the trick!
• It's nice to hear that you treat your cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually called “you,” although not a single cat has ever drunk brotherhood with anyone.
• An unhappy person is cruel and callous. And all just because good people mutilated him.
• Do you judge by the suit? Never do this. You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that.
• Never ask for anything! Never and nothing, and especially among those who are stronger than you. They will offer and give everything themselves.
• He who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.
• For mercy... Would I allow myself to pour vodka for the lady? This is pure alcohol!
• 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!
• It is easy and pleasant to speak the truth.
• Why pursue in the footsteps of what is already over?
• - Dostoevsky died.
  - I protest, Dostoevsky is immortal!
• And fact is the most stubborn thing in the world.
• All theories are worth one another. Among them there is one according to which everyone will be given according to their faith. May it come true!
• What country's wine do you prefer at this time of day?
• My drama is that I live with someone I don’t love, but I consider it unworthy to ruin his life.
• - Cowardice is one of the most terrible human vices.
  - No, I dare to object to you. Cowardice is the most terrible human vice.
• Never be afraid of anything. This is unreasonable.
• The most terrible anger is the anger of powerlessness.
• What would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?
• Understand that the tongue can hide the truth, but the eyes can never!
• 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, they are frivolous... well, well... and mercy sometimes knocks on their hearts... ordinary people... in general, they resemble the old ones... The housing issue only spoiled them.
• No matter what pessimists say, the earth is still absolutely beautiful, and under the moon it is simply unique.

Be careful with your wishes - they tend to come true.

A novel by Mikhail Bulgakov "Master and Margarita"- the brightest masterpiece and the most mysterious of the novels in history Russian literature XX century. A book that you can read and reread dozens, hundreds of times, but never fully understand. The cult novel is full of adventures, mysteries, irony and endless wisdom.

The novel was first published only 26 years after the author’s death, in 1966, and even then only in an abbreviated magazine version. The novel immediately gained popularity and was distributed in hand-typed copies until its official publication in 1973.

1. Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in the world? May the liar's vile tongue be cut out!
2. We speak different languages, as always, but the things we talk about do not change.
3. An unhappy person is cruel and callous. And all just because good people mutilated him.
4. Sometimes the best way to destroy a person is to let him choose his own fate.
5. A person without a surprise inside, in his box, is uninteresting.
6. Everything will be right, the world is built on this.
7. – Margarita Nikolaevna did not need money. Margarita Nikolaevna could buy whatever she liked. Among her husband's acquaintances there were interesting people. Margarita Nikolaevna never touched a primus stove. Margarita Nikolaevna did not know the horrors of living in a shared apartment.
   - In a word... Was she happy?
   - Not a single minute!
8. Understand that the tongue can hide the truth, but the eyes can never!
9. It's nice to hear that you treat your cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually called “you,” although not a single cat has ever drunk brotherhood with anyone.
10. Yes, man is mortal, but that would not be so bad. The bad thing is that he is sometimes suddenly mortal, that's the trick!
11. Do you judge by the suit? Never do this. You can make a mistake, and a very big one at that.
12. He who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.
13. There are no evil people in the world, there are only unhappy people.
14. - Is this vodka? – Margarita asked weakly.
    The cat jumped up in his chair from offense.
    “For mercy, queen,” he croaked, “would I allow myself to pour vodka for the lady?” This is pure alcohol!
15. A brick will never fall on anyone's head for no reason at all..
16. “You are not Dostoevsky,” said the citizen, confused by Koroviev.
    “Well, who knows, who knows,” he answered.
    “Dostoevsky died,” said the citizen, but somehow not very confidently.
    “I protest,” Behemoth exclaimed hotly. – Dostoevsky is immortal!
17. 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 issue only spoiled them...
18. Never ask for anything! Never and nothing, and especially among those who are stronger than you. They will offer and give everything themselves!
19. The most interesting thing about this lie is that it is a lie from the first to the last word.
20. All theories are worth one another. Among them there is one according to which everyone will be given according to their faith. May it come true!
21. Nonsense! In three hundred years this will pass.
22. What country's wine do you prefer at this time of day?
23. My drama is that I live with someone I don’t love, but I consider it unworthy to ruin his life.
24. – Cowardice is one of the most terrible human vices.
    – I dare to object to you. Cowardice is the most terrible human vice.
25. Never be afraid of anything. This is unreasonable.
26. The most terrible anger is the anger of powerlessness.
27. I'll tell you a fairy tale. There was only one aunt in the world. And she had no children and no happiness at all. And so at first she cried for a long time, and then she became angry.
28. Annushka has already bought sunflower oil, and not only bought it, but even bottled it. So the meeting will not take place.
29. What would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?
30. No matter what pessimists say, the earth is still absolutely beautiful, and under the moon it is simply unique.