Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita (1997) -
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poems. What makes them bad? The truth, he was telling the truth!' Riukhin
addressed himself mercilessly. 'I don't believe in anything I write! . . .'
Poisoned bv this burst of neurasthenia, the poet swayed, the floor
under him stopped shaking. Riukhin raised his head and saw that he had long
been in Moscow, and, what's more, that it was dawn over Moscow, that the
cloud was underlit with gold, that his truck had stopped, caught in a column
of other vehicles at the turn on to the boulevard, and that very close to
him on a pedestal stood a metal man, his head inclined slightly, gazing at
the boulevard with indifference.
Some strange thoughts flooded the head of the ailing poet. 'There's an
example of real luck. . .' Here Riukhin rose to his full height on the
flatbed of the truck and raised his arm, for some reason attacking the
cast-iron man who was not bothering anyone. 'Whatever step he made in his
life, whatever happened to him, it all turned to his benefit, it all led to
his glory! But what did he do? I can't conceive ... Is there anything
special in the words: "The snowstorm covers . . ."? I don't understand! .. .
Luck, sheer luck!' Riukhin concluded with venom, and felt the truck moving
under him. 'He shot him, that white guard shot him, smashed his hip, and
assured his immortality...'
The column began to move. In no more than two minutes, the completely
ill and even aged poet was entering the veranda of Griboedov's. It was now
empty. In a corner some company was finishing its drinks, and in the middle
the familiar master of ceremonies was bustling about, wearing a skullcap,
with a glass of Abrau wine in his hand.
Riukhin, laden with napkins, was met affably by Archibald
Archi-baldovich and at once relieved of the cursed rags. Had Riukhin not
become so worn out in the clinic and on the truck, he would certainly have