The Master and Margarita (Translated by Ginsburg 1967) by Mikhail Bulgakov

Author:Mikhail Bulgakov [Bulgakov, Mikhail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature
ISBN: 9780802190512
Amazon: 0679760806
Publisher: Grove Press; Grove/Atlantic
Published: 1967-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

THE LUCKLESS VISITORS

Just at the time when the conscientious bookkeeper was speeding in the taxi to his encounter with the writing suit, a neatly dressed passenger with a small cardboard valise alighted, among others, from the reserved-seat car number 9 of the Kiev train, just arrived in Moscow. This passenger was none other than the uncle of the late Berlioz, Maximilian Andreyevich Poplavsky, a planning economist who lived on what used to be known as Institute Street in Kiev. The reason for his arrival in Moscow was a telegram he had received late at night two days before. The telegram read: Have just been run over by streetcar at Patriarchs’ Ponds funeral Friday three afternoon come Berlioz.

Maximilian Andreyevich was known, and deservedly so, as one of the cleverest men in Kiev. But even the cleverest man would be baffled by such a telegram. If a man could wire that he had been run over, he obviously was not dead. Then what was this about the funeral? Or was he hurt so badly that he knew he would die? That was possible, but how could he know with such precision the day and hour of his funeral? An amazing telegram!

However, what are clever people clever for if not to get confusions straightened out? The answer was simple. There had been an error and the telegram was garbled. The words “have just been” were inserted by error, and “Berlioz” was put at the end instead of the beginning. With such a correction, the meaning of the telegram became clear, though naturally, tragic.

When the outburst of grief—which surprised his wife—subsided, Maximilian Andreyevich immediately began to prepare for the journey to Moscow.

We must now reveal a certain secret longing cherished by Maximilian Andreyevich. Unquestionably, he was sorry for his wife’s nephew, who had perished in the bloom of his years. However, as a man of sound practical sense, he understood that there was no particular need for his presence at the funeral. Nevertheless, Maximilian Andreyevich hurried off to Moscow. What could have prompted him to do it? A single reason—the apartment. An apartment in Moscow—why, that was a matter of utmost importance! No one knows why, but Maximilian Andreyevich disliked Kiev, and the thought of moving to Moscow had become so obsessive with him of late that it did not let him sleep at night.

He derived no pleasure from the overflow of the Dnieper in the spring, when, flooding all the land on the low bank, the river merged with the horizon. He did not relish the magnificent view opening from the foot of the monument to Prince Vladimir. Nor did it gladden his heart to see the sunflecks playing on the brick walks of Vladimir Hill in springtime. He wanted none of this; he wanted one thing only—to move to Moscow.

His newspaper advertisements offering to exchange the apartment on Institute Street in Kiev for a smaller one in Moscow brought no results. There were no candidates, and those who appeared from time to time proved untrustworthy.

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