Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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Raising a cloud of dust the squadron surged down the street, the last
trooper to pass Pilate carrying a glinting trumpet slung across his back.
Shielding his face from the dust with his hand and frowning with
annoyance Pilate walked on, hurrying towards the gate of the palace garden
followed by the Legate, the secretary and the escort.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning.
'Yes, it was about ten o'clock in the morning, my dear Ivan
Nikolayich,' said the professor.
The poet drew his hand across his face like a man who has just woken up
and noticed that it was now evening. The water in the pond had turned black,
a little boat was gliding across it and he could hear the splash of an oar
and a girl's laughter in the boat. People were beginning to appear in the
avenues and were sitting on the benches on all sides of the square except on
the side where our friends were talking.
Over Moscow it was as if the sky had blossomed : a clear, full moon had
risen, still white and not yet golden. It was much less stuffy and the
voices under the lime trees now had an even-tide softness.
'Why didn't I notice what a long story he's been telling us? ' thought
Bezdomny in amazement. ' It's evening already! Perhaps he hasn't told it at
all but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it?'
But if the professor had not told the story Berlioz must have been
having the identical dream because he said, gazing attentively into the
stranger's face :
'Your story is extremely interesting, professor, but it diners
completely from the accounts in the gospels.'
'But surely,' replied the professor with a condescending smile, ' you
of all people must realise that absolutely nothing written in the gospels
actually happened. If you want to regard the gospels as a proper historical